


Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.1

by pixichi



Series: Stealth and Witchcraft Series [1]
Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Drama & Romance, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Family Drama, Gwenevere - Freeform, Multi, Nymphs & Dryads, Other, Psychological Torture, Romantic Comedy, Victorian_era, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixichi/pseuds/pixichi





	1. The Arrival

Walls of stone, can't keep out everything. It had long been whispered amidst the paranoid denizens of The City, that strange things lurked within the repugnant corners of their world. More, than just mere murderers and thieves. Spirits and beasts of unexplored realms, and lost lore. Beings, which their tyrannical baron, had tried so aggressively to purge from their wondering minds.

As ludicrous as it sounded, the rumors were indeed true. For what purpose, none could truly say. But their kind had walked amidst the manfools for a millennia--never leaving so much as a footprint, but always turning heads. Taking the guise of a young, impressionable maiden, even the most observant of souls were fooled by their lying flesh, and haunting eyes. 

It was a dance as old as time, as unpredictable as a storm. But regardless of what Northcrest wanted his dreary citizens to believe, there was no quelling suspicion when it came to blatant fact. And the fact remained--fantastical beasts of woodsie lore, did indeed exist. They had come exploring that stone jungle of smoke and anguish before, and they would continue to do so, until the end of all things eventually came. 

Upon an otherwise uneventful night in late September, the curious cadence of such spectacular tidings, began anew. The herald of these shifting times, these wondrous and terrible changes, entered the dismal confines of Stonemarket upon trembling legs. 

She wasn't at all like her predecessors. Neither fleet nor clever was she, but rather clumsy and lost. Blind to the ways of old, incapable of sustaining herself within the woods after nearly two decades of the unspeakable: Domestication. 

The rainy skies overhead had since cleared away into the deep purples and velvety blacks of nightfall, leaving the slums quiet and dismal. Town guards stood huddled around the fire pits; laughing, telling tales, and warming their frigid bones. Most didn't even notice the cloaked being slipping with ease through the streets. 

The figure stooped just beyond the shadows, and undid their hood. Dark red hair flowed over the navy fabric like fiery blood, as the curious beauty panted, desperation and terror having stolen away her breath. Intense, sparkling green irises looked up at the hazy night sky, as the escaped creature revolted against the loud and uncertain world she now found herself lost within.

The sight of the smoke-laden heavens couldn't help but leave her thinking: What was she doing here?! 

It seemed so surreal, like the feeling one got after waking up from a realistic dream. Bolting up in your bed, only to feel relief at the sight of a familiar room. Only in this case, relief did not come, and in its place, was a numbing emptiness. A blinding emptiness that ate away at her heart with jagged, terrible teeth.  
Did she really want to do this? More importantly, could she do this? Was being that noble's pet and possession really worse than this new, all-encompassing fear?  A single tear fell from her eyes, as the forsaken creature released a loud, mournful sigh. 

Yes. Yes it was. Anything would be better than that life she had finally managed to flee. Even death would have been better than that. At least now, the girl had a chance to set things right before she died. 

Turning away from her depressing thoughts, she continued on her journey.

***

As she reached the seedier parts of the neighborhood, a loud ruckus caught her ears. 

"Hey Chuck! Just lookie what we got here!"

The curious girl crept out of the alleyway, only to fall back into the phantom grasp of shadow, as she recoiled from a most horrific sight. Across from where she now hid, clutching at her rosewood heart, two guards were brutally kicking a man dressed in tattered rags. The girl creature's mouth gaped in abject shock at the repulsive scene. 

"We warned you old man, keep yer nose outta our business!" shouted one. 

The victimized vagrant shakily raised his head, and sneered up at his armed attackers. There was an unbridled defiance within his glassy eyes. A daring rancor befitting of any hero. 

"You...were going to slaughter that woman...she has a child, and she's five months pregnant with another mouth...I'd sooner die than let you do--"

A sharp kick to his abdomen silenced his gallantry. The hidden girl sneered with disgust. She trembled, her body reacting to the mindless persecution of the poor human. Something boiled deep within her, as those silver-plated demons began to befoul the midnight air with wicked laughter.

"Well ain't you just a taffing white knight?" the older guard chuckled, before hoisted the man to his feet, and pounding his bony frame up against the brick wall. "Too bad you ain't smart enough to keep your head down, and your mouth shut! That wench has been stealing bread from the village shop for the last three months. Enough is enough!"

"Yeah. You know the Thief-Taker General's new rule," the other bluecoat spoke up, "first strike--a night in prison. Second strike--death by hanging. Third strike--cut 'em down in the street!"

"Second and third strikes both equate to death. Why have a three strike system at all?" the homeless man retorted, not a hint of fear present within his fiery brown eyes. 

"The only reason she didn't get hung up, was because YOU helped her escape!" the bluecoat spat on him. "Besides, if she didn't want to be hungry, then she should take a job in one of the factories. Or, at least whore herself out. I'm sure she'd make a killing that way!"

"Cowards who hide behind the visage of justice will never prevail," the man shouted. "You cannot silence righteousness with fear!"

The guard sneered at that, obviously irked by something within the brazen drifter's words. 

As he produced a wicked looking blade from its scabbard, the surveying girl felt cold dread overtake her heart. The guard revealed a devious grin, as he positioned his blade just below the man's ribcage. 

"Yeah? Well, let's see if that righteousness can help you now, taffer. I'm about to spill yer guts right here in the streets, so the rest of the filthy gutter ilk can feast. I'd say that's right noble of you..."

The man's eyes remained vigilant, though the girl could smell his fear. And she could stand it no longer. She closed her eyes and focused her mind, allowing the darkness of her bloodline to overtake her weak form. It crept across her arms, in a sensation that resembled dozens of crawling insects. She then ground her teeth, and violently thrust her hands outward. 

Despite the outside temperature being frigid and blustery, the air around her grew muggy with a bizarre heat. A crescendo of apparitional insects buzzed and chattered, as a sinister liquid oozed forth from the girl's fingertips. It trickled and slithered across the midnight streets, stalking the murderous bluecoats with a voracious hunger. It hissed as it found their feet,  before engulfing the two guards in a vicious spell of acidic blackness. It instantly tore away at their armor, and began melting their flesh. 

The homeless man was dropped as the guard incapacitating him began to convulse and scream. He fell to his knees, as true fear finally consumed his person. He watched through wide, traumatized eyes as the bluecoats twitched and screeched. Flesh began to dissolve from bone, exposing oozing fat and inflamed muscle tissue. Their armor began to corrode, the leather melting itself against the dissolving skin. The older guard tried in primal desperation to wipe the goop from his arm--only to end up degloving the extremity completely. 

More bloodcurdling screams echoed throughout the night for a time, haunting every unfortunate soul who heard them. But eventually, the spell subsided, and two decayed skeletons were all that remained of the brave man's tormentors. He yelped and shook, dragging his battered body away from the gristly scene.  
That's when she decided to make her presence known. A dark shadow fell over his person, and as the overcome vagrant looked upward, his heart threatening to leap out of his throat. 

Little did he realize, that this was his savior whom he feared.

"W-what do you want?" he asked the cloaked entity, in a voice barely above a pitiful whimper. His fearless disposition, was all but diminished. 

"Are you alright?" a soft, treble female voice asked. 

The man raised an eyebrow at the bell-like sound, beyond confused by how such a girlish voice could possibly emanate out of a nightmare. 

"I-I am," he stammered. "Is this...your doing?" he questioned, quite apprehensive.

"Yes," she replied, watching the man's eyes grow wide at her words.

"M-miss, please..." he pleaded upon his knees, fingers interlocked as he marveled up at her. 

Praying to the woman, as if she were one of the old gods. Begging her not to use her unknown source of volatile power against him next.

"Huh? Are you sure you're alright?" she cocked her head. 

For a moment, she'd completely forgotten how terrified men became of her when she used her magic in front of them. 

"Please miss, I beseech you...don't take my life!" 

"Hey! It's not like that!" she urged him to regain his composure. "I-I only did that to help you! I normally don't like to do that stuff, but those guys were gonna--" 

She stopped herself, deciding that relaying such a statement would be a moot point. The cowering bum at her feet was already well aware of just what the guards had intended. So instead, she decided to change the subject. 

"Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's start from the top, okay? My name's Gwenevere! What's yours?" she inquired.

The vagrant stared up at her, only then realizing that her features were quite delicate. It was almost like looking into the face of a young child--her eyes alive with luster and exuberance. Had he not seen the magic subside back into her unassuming form, he would have never considered such a girl capable of such ghastly powers. 

That, made what had just transpired all the more horrifying. 

"Umm...F-Fredrick..." he choked out. "Is...is that the right answer?"

"Well, that depends. Is that your name?"

"Y-yes...miss G-Gwenevere..."

"Taffin' awesome! That's a wonderful name!" the girl cheered, unexpectedly. "Hello Frederick," the girl waved. 

"Umm...hello..." Frederick gave a rather uncomfortable wave.

"Hey Frederick? Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, I guess..."

"Well..." the girl looked up at the ivory moon, placing a finger to her full lips in contemplation. "You do live here in the slums, correct?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah I do," the man replied, still slightly shaken.

"Great! I came here looking for a man named Basso. Do you know him?"

The beggar rose to his feet, and gave her an odd stare.

"Basso? You're looking for Basso?" he asked. "Why sure I do! Everyone knows Ol' Basso the Boxman!"

"The, boxman?" Gwenevere's nose twitched. "Weird, why is he called that?" 

"It'sa...kind of a long story," the homeless man shrugged.

"Oh," she shuffled her feet. "Well, do you know where I can find him, Frederick?"

"Well, Basso's usually hanging around the Crippled Burrick tavern. If he ain't there, folks say he has a room rented out just beneath the place. Don't know why anyone would choose to live in a basement, but suppose it's none of my business anyway," Frederick shrugged.

"Oh, I dunno. Maybe it's super comfy down there or something?" Gwenevere chimed. "Well, anyway thanks for the help! You be careful, okay?"

"No problem at all," the man began waving weakly at his savior. "You too..."

He watched as the strange girl skipped down the alleyway, until she disappeared from sight. Frederick was left with his life, and a foreboding sense of inpending dread. Just who or what sort of being possessed such evil magic? Why had she been so kind to him, despite having such formidable powers at her disposal? And perhaps the question which haunted him most of all--just what did she want, with Basso the Boxman?

***

The tavern had been a loud, bustling place. But it was devoid of any man named, 'Basso'. A woman with perky breasts, and curly blonde hair that bounced as she walked, had pointed Gwenevere in the direction of the downstairs basement. Just as Frederick had mentioned before, the boxman apparently made his home down there. 

The building's windows were dark, but a faint glow of candlelight could be seen from within. Gwenevere took a deep, cleansing breath. Pushing away the last of her fear and doubt, she knocked on the basement door. It opened shortly thereafter with a low creak, and a short stocky man with ripped clothing, and an odd smell poked his head out.

"Can I help you?" he asked, rubbing his forehead.

Gwenevere squinted, trying to examine his facial features in the dim light. He was a rather robust fellow, in his mid forties. A scraggly mess of whiskers covered the lower portion of his face, in some meager attempt at a beard. His eyes were tired, and large bags clung beneath the sunken sockets.  
The girl wondered what cruel fate had befallen this poor man--or when he'd last gotten a full night's rest for that matter. 

"Are you Basso?" she asked, stepping closer.

"Who wants to know?" the man emerged from his hovel, crossing his arms.

"A man in the alley told me that Basso lives here."

"Yeah? And who are you?" he snorted. 

"I'm Gwenevere Simmons. I'm looking for work," Gwenevere proclaimed.

Her introduction caused the man to raise an eyebrow. Then, rather abruptly, he began to laugh. 

"Simmons, eh? That's what yer goin' with?" the middle-aged pauper gave the girl an incredulous look. 

"Should I go with something else?" Gwenevere asked, feeling ambivalent about the way Basso was reacting. She expected him to be surprised, or perhaps intimidated by the mention of the prestigious family. Not laughing!

"So, you're a Simmons, huh?! As in, a member of one of the most influential families in town?"

"Yep," Gwenevere nodded, growing jovial again. 

"Is it Foolsday already?"

"Um, isn't that in Summer?" 

"The point I'm tryin' ta make here kid, and the very point that you seem ta be missin' rather exquisitely, is that this HAS to be some sort of a joke," the boxman remarked sardonically. "It's a joke, right?" he winked.

"No! I am being serious!" Gwenevere retorted, her nerves budding into tiny fireballs of rage. Basso frowned at that.

"I'm sure."

"Look, I'll prove it and everything!" she squawked, producing something from the knapsack around her waist. It turned out to be a folded piece of parchment. Basso raised an eyebrow at the paper, before giving the girl an unimpressed snort.

"What's this?" he asked when Gwenevere handed it to him.

"Open it and see," she smiled.

Basso did exactly that. What he saw however, caused his pupils to dilate and his mouth to go dry instantaneously. It was a wanted poster, though not of the sort he was used to. This one, was for an innocent. It read:

**Missing since last Tuesday night, one Gwenevere Simmons.**

********

**Please contact Lord Simmons at his private estate in Auledale with any information.**

********

********

**A reward is being considered.**

********

********

Sure enough, the girl in the picture was identical to the one standing before him now. 

Basso's fat fingers trembled, as he neatly re-folded the poster. He surveyed the young woman before him, pressing his lips together in deep contemplation.  
If this was indeed a noble's daughter, then what the hell was she doing down here?!

"Ok, sweetheart, I believe ya," he murmured. "So, now that you have my undivided attention, mind tellin' me what this is all about?"

"Umm, well...someone told me that you have an...operation?" she tried. Basso's eyes narrowed.

"Oh? And just who told you that?" he demanded gruffly.

"M-my nana. She's been good to me for many a year now, sir. She's the reason I was able to escape the manor! She told me to go and seek you out."

"Uh-huh. And why'd ya do that, kid?" Basso asked, stroking his beard with one hand. 

"Well, I..." Gwenevere turned away, biting her lip in genuine apprehension. "I-I want to help out with it. I want to learn how to be a thief!"

If Basso's jaw hadn't been firmly attached to his skull, it would have fallen right off his face in that moment. Mouth still ajar, he leaned closer and cupped a hand to his ear. 

"Mind speakin' into my good ear, kiddo?" he asked in a vexatious tone. "Because I could have sworn that you just asked to be a thief."

"Well, that's because I did!" Gwenevere giggled innocently. Basso sighed, his comedic stylings clearly lost on this girl.

"And why the taff would you want to do that?! You're rich, you already have everything at your fingertips!" he argued. The young woman winced at his words.

"Not really. I know everyone assumes that, but it's just not true," Gwenevere started, fighting back the teardrops that pricked at her eyelashes. 

"Whadda ya mean?" Basso leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. 

The girl lowered her head in defeated surrender, and allowed her messy red bangs to conceal her tears. No, she couldn't tell him that. Even if she could, it wasn't as if he'd believe it.

"It doesn't matter. The point is, I ran away, and I'm never going back," Gwenevere looked up at him, allowing the boxman to watch the tears stream down her cheeks. "I want to be free..." she whispered. 

Basso's disinterested scowl melted when he observed the blatant sorrow written within her emerald eyes. 

The kid was serious about becoming a lackey. More importantly, she appeared to be very adamant about the decision. The boxman squeezed the folded parchment he still held within his hand. The decision was a maddening one to make. If he turned the girl over to the bluecoats--to her father--he'd be a wealthy man indeed. He could finally afford to escape the squalor he'd been fermenting in for good. But one look into the girl's face, and Basso knew this would be difficult. He'd always been a sucker for a pretty face, and this one was riddled with genuine trust and aspiration. He knew that if he did turn her in, he would feel beyond rotten about it. 

Aside from the moral dilemma of the situation, Basso had another reason to hesitate. The City watch. He had enough trouble with the guards already. If he so much as spoke to one, chances were good that he'd end up getting thrown into prison for a very, very long time. Twenty years of hard crime had a way of viciously besmirching a fellow's rap sheet, after all. 

"I'll think about it, kid. But just tell me one thing: Why should I help you, instead of just turning you over to yer daddy?"

Gwenevere's heart leapt into her throat. She took one, imperiled step backwards, her large eyes glistening with panic. 

One look into those eyes, and Basso knew that there was something frightfully amiss in regards to the runaway's current situation. He had seen such fear, reflected in the eyes of men on their final walk out of the prison--and down to the gallows. This, wasn't the reluctant annoyance of being returned to the embrace of a doting parent. No, something within Gwenevere's eyes in that moment, conveyed a genuine crisis. Although he couldn't for the life of him figure out just what said crisis was, the worldly boxman knew one thing: The child before him, was authentically mortified at the prospect of returning home. 

Basso's entire body grew tense. He was about to explain to the girl that he was sorry for even mentioning the idea. But Gwenevere spoke first. 

"Because I have a talent which you might find very much helpful to your organization," she spoke in a muted, almost monotone voice. Basso crooked a thinning taupe eyebrow at her.

"Oh? What is it?" he asked. 

Gwenevere's posture began to soften, as a playful tingle raced down her spine. It was happening again. That untamed spark of mischief was taking hold of her. Her green eyes pierced into the expectant gaze of the ragged hooligan before her. Even in her whimsical state of untempered vivaciousness, Gwenevere realized that what she was preparing to do, was superfluous. She could simply explain her skill to Basso, or perhaps show him with a minor demonstration.  
But after his rather disquieting threat, Gwenevere wanted to secure his interest. She needed to make absolutely sure, that the boxman viewed her as valuable. As a person of interest, whom he couldn't afford to throw back to the wolves. 

She closed her eyes and lowered her head. All the while, Basso continued to stare at her, now mildly bewildered.

"Hey, what are ya doin' kid?" he finally just asked. 

At that moment, Gwenevere's eyes met his, though her head was still bowed. The look she gave him must have been intimidating indeed, because it caused the man to recoil backwards into his hovel. The girl followed in after him, as her eyes began to glow a stark white. Basso's face contorted in unspeakable dread. 

"Oi! Girly! What the hell's wrong with y--" 

But Gwenevere didn't answer him. She didn't have to. 

With a burst of primal passion, the young woman thrust her arms up from her sides. They were accompanied by a quick, but brilliant pulsing light. The boxman cried out in a mixture of both surprise and pain at the blinding incandescence. The spectacle lasted only a moment, and when it was over, she bounded giddily upon her toes. Basso got up from the floor and gaped at her cherubic grin.

"I can do that," she giggled, sticking out her little pink tongue in jest. 

"Do...what exactly?" the boxman shook. "Was that...was that...magic?" he asked, in a voice barely over a whisper. 

"Sort of." Gwenevere grinned.

Basso blinked, before narrowing his eyes in quiet aversion. Gwenevere gasped, and nearly misfired a second, far more lethal spell, when he grabbed her unsuspecting wrist. 

"Sort of?! Is that a joke?!" he shouted, furious at this point. "I just saw you use magic, girl! No use lyin' about it!"

Gwenevere's lips parted. Though his grasp on her arm was intense, it barely stung. She wondered what had caused the seemingly mild pauper to react so harshly to her fantastical reveal. Perhaps she had frightened him? Or, was he perhaps, against the arcane arts? Either way, the girl regretted startling him so.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you," Gwenevere offered. "And I certainly wasn't trying to make a joke, sir. Your question just...confused me a little."

Basso gaped at her collected reply, and abruptly released his hold on her.

"Huh? What question?"

"Regarding if what you just saw was magic or not. If you're so sure it was magic, then why did you ask?"

"I..um..." he scratched his head. "Er, well I guess I just wasn't expectin' it, is all," he replied sheepishly.

"Ah," Gwenevere nodded, closing her eyes. 

"Anyway, yeah. Magic is pretty great, and certainly rare nowadays, outside of the factions and all. I can see why you'd think such a talent would be useful to me."

Gwenevere felt her posture slump at his words. She'd been expecting a, 'welcome aboard!' or maybe even a, 'I might be able to help you'. But this...this was starting to sound like a flat 'no'.

"Just give me the bad news already..." she huffed. Basso offered a sympathetic smile, then sighed. 

"Hey, I'm sorry kiddo. But I'm just not too sure how using magic is gonna help my organization. I usually look for rogues; those who are quick on their feet and dexterous. Magic is kind of a...a big distraction. Ya get what I'm sayin' here?"

Gwenevere looked up at him, her vigor renewing itself before his very eyes. If that was the only issue he had...

"Well, what if my distractions came in handy?" she offered. "Like, if you guys are trying to break into a place, and there are too many guards around? Would that be useful?"

The boxman began to chuckle at her eager little spiel. The kid certainly had moxie. She was scrappy too; eager to take risks to get what she needed. But even at that...

"Alright, alright. Don't go twistin' my arm there, kiddo," Basso mused, straightening his dusty top hat. "If yer indeed serious about this, I think we might be able to squeeze ya in. Just because I've never worked with a genuine mage, doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad idea. I say we give this a shot!" 

To say that Gwenevere was ecstatic, would be a gross understatement indeed.

"Really?! Oh, thank you!" she bounded with glee, clapping her hands together like an exuberant child. "I promise I'll do my best! I won't let you down, sir!"

"Yeah...I'm sure you will," Basso smiled. "Only one hitch: You mentioned prior that you wanted to learn how to be a thief, correct?"

"Yes?" the girl's heart grew turbulent again. 

"Well, I'm in a bit of a quandary here. You see, I can't just let people who work with me run around the city if they're novices. Eventually, they'd get caught, and then they might talk. About me. Ya get what I'm sayin'?" 

Gwevevere nodded, her heart proceeding to slump deeper within her chest. She knew where this was going. Or, so she thought. 

"But, I'd also be lying if I said ya hadn't already surprised me. I love yer spunk, and I really do wanna see if I can help ya out. It took some real guts comin' this far from Auledale all by yer lonesome. I don't know what yer home situation is like, girly, but if this is somethin' yer serious about, then perhaps you'd be game for a little, 'on the job training'?" 

Basso leaned towards her, and motioned for her to come further into his abode. His eyes were warm, beckoning to the little lost soul before him.

"Of course!" Gwenevere agreed with aught hesitation. If it would save her from Lord Simmons. If it could mold her into a midnight vigilante who could deliver the poor. If there was even a chance, the determined little creature knew she had to take it. 

"Good. I'm glad to hear you agree," Basso dipped his head in approval. "So, what's gonna happen here, is this: I'll send you off with one of my fellow, 'entrepreneurs' so you can learn the ropes. His name is Garrett. We go way back, him and I. No doubt he won't be particularly pleased about it, but if I offer him a big enough purse of coins, I'm sure he'll come around."

Gwenevere shivered inside, her soul jubilant with her recent success. Although, she was a bit concerned as to just whom she'd be working with. 

"This, Garrett," she began, half petrified. She had come this far--the last thing Gwenevere wanted to do, was change Basso's mind. "He's a thief then?"

"Aye, and the best out there at that," Basso affirmed. "You ain't gonna find yerself a better teacher nowhere."

"That...sounds amazing!" Gwenevere's entire face seemed to sparkle with admiration. 

"Just wait until ya meet him. Maybe then you'll change yer tune," Basso grumbled under his breath. When she shot him a puzzled glance, the boxman shook his head and laughed. "Anyway, welcome to the family, Gwenevere."

"Thank you," the girl blushed.

"Oh, and just so there's no worries, let me just clarify," the older man removed his tophat, a genuine candor present within his eyes. "You seem like a swell gal, so I'll let you in on yer first little underworld secret, kid. Ever hear of the saying, 'there's no honor among thieves?"

"No," Gwenevere shook her head. Basso waved his hand about in an unbiased fashion.

"Eh, doesn't matter. Basically, it's an old adage made up by taffers who don't know squat about us. You know--bluecoats and them stuffy nobles," the boxman startled, then looked over at Gwenevere with a worried blush. "Erm, no offense!"

"None taken," Gwenevere reassured with a kind smile. 

"Anyway, they got it all wrong. There is indeed, honor among thieves. At least the ones I know," he smiled down at the girl again, and patted her shoulder. "We never sell out our own. You'll be safe with us, kid."

The shady man then winked. If she hadn't expelled the last of them from her eyes over the course of the last several days, Gwenevere would have cried. Ironically, she did indeed feel safe, here amidst these vagabonds and vagrants. It was the first time she'd experienced a genuine sanctuary, in almost two decades. She bit her bottom lip, and locked eyes with Basso. She wanted so badly to hug him in that moment, but Gwenevere suspected that such a forward gesture would be most unwelcome. 

So, instead she just continued to smile.


	2. The Arrangement

"No, no and NO!" Garrett barked, slamming his fist down hard against the table. 

He wasn't usually a violent individual, and this was his first time expressing physical anger for quite some time. But he had good reason for it. What was Basso thinking?! The thief had always made it very clear that he worked alone, yet over the past few years, Basso had gotten the crazy idea into his head that Garrett needed a partner.   
With things only growing worse within the city, more and more rogues had found themselves in the shady man's services, and quite often, the seasoned Garrett was requested to team up with them in order to take in bigger, and riskier hauls. It was becoming more than a slight annoyance at this point. Garrett was more than capable of flying solo. He always had been.

"C'mon Garrett! For old time's sake!" Basso pleaded with a drunken twinkle in his eye.

The thief whirled around, his bi-colored glare flashing with a silent ferocity.

"I said no," he grumbled. Basso exhaled a deep sigh, and spat a wad of chew into a nearby crate.

"You know Garrett, this girl may be the key to your biggest heist yet," the boxman coaxed.

"Oh? And why's that?" Garrett smirked, thus far unimpressed with Basso's latest show. If anything, this was doomed to be his weakest pitch yet, with those lofty expectations. 

Garrett had killed a god--after robbing him blind, of course! He'd single-handedly put an end to the Mechanist cult, and stolen treasures so rare, that they were thought to be mere legends. He'd saved The City three times now, yet no one within its walls--save a select few--were even aware of his so-called heroics. 

But even taking into account every past irritating wheeze and syllable to have exited his best mate's lips over the years, nothing, could have prepared Garrett for the utmost foolery and suicide that was the following conversation. 

"Because...she's a Simmons!" Basso recanted, as proudly as though he'd just proven his constitution in a drinking contest. Just about as wasted, too.

Garrett's expression went from nonchalant, to utterly speechless. He stared at Basso with genuine confusion.

"Why the hell would a Simmons want to work with you?! Anyway, Basso, are you insane?! What if she rats you out? What if she rats ME out?!"

"Relax Garrett, the gal's a responsibility dodging scamp. She told me all she wants is her freedom," the boxman chuckled at that last word. "No noble would ever talk like that, because no noble would ever use their brains to ponder what they might be giving up for all that gold. I'm sorry, but in my eyes, that shows possibility."

"It shows that you've made an even bigger mistake than usual, old man. I'm not training her. If she wants to steal things, let her do so on her own time. By herself," the thief huffed, and started for the door. 

Basso hesitated. He didn't want to hurt his mate, but he also knew that cunning manipulation might be the only way to win the day. He decided to take that gamble.

"Is it because of what happened? With Erin?" 

Garrett stopped cold. His fingers tensed into uncomfortable curls, as he softly lowered his head. Erin. She had been little more than a skeleton in rags when he had chanced upon her that cold autumn's eve. No older than six, the orphan had been half dead. To this day, he couldn't be sure what it was that had made him take pity on the girl, but perhaps it had been his own hopeless memories of childhood. 

Garrett could still hear her frightened whimpers as she gawked up at the ominous dark figure looming over her. He could still feel her clammy, tiny fingers as she reached up and took his beckoning hand. He had trained her to steal, taken her under his wing as his one and only protégé. That child. His child. The closest thing the lone man would ever have to a family. And now she was dead. 

Because of him.

"Basso. You promised me that you wouldn't bring her up anymore..." the thief's voice held all the emotion of a dead man.

"I only bring her up because after what happened last year, you haven't been the same. Your passion for the job is gone. It's as if you're emotionlessly driven now. I'm starting to worry about you," he offered, a genuine concern coating his disheveled features.

The master thief whirled around, and locked eyes with his portly companion. Basso had always found it downright unsettling, how so much emotion could be found within the eyes of Garrett's otherwise indecipherable expression. 

Those eyes, were the boxman's only warning to the storm that was to follow. 

"Is that why you keep pairing me up with these no-names? You think I'm in need of friends? Someone to buy me pint?" Garrett scoffed. 

"Are you?" Basso didn't miss a beat.

Garrett didn't offer a witty response in time, so the boxman, continued.

"What happened that night? Erin was headstrong, sure. She didn't listen to you worth a damn, but that was kinda expected, given her age. But the whole thing just seems so...bizarre," Basso pondered. 

The thief curled his fingers tighter, forming a fist. He held them like that for several moments, before releasing them with a defeated sigh.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I was just trying to help. Hey! Speaking of which, maybe this, will 'help' persuade you to train Gwenevere..." 

With that, Basso threw a large, bulging coin purse in Garrett's direction. It landed squarely at his feet. The thief took a moment to study the sack, before picking it up.   
He didn't know which was more unbelievable; how much faith Basso was putting into this new girl, or how much he was paying for her training. There had to be over ten-thousand silver coins stuffed so tightly into that little sack, that it was practically bursting at the seams. 

"I'm not even going to bother to ask where a bumpkin like you came across all this money," Garrett murmured, tucking the coins away within the flap of his cloak. 

"Bumkin?! Gee, thanks! " Basso snorted sourly. "Well, then again, at least it's better than some of the names I've been given. Filthy. Drunkard. Letch. Taffing Bas--"

"--You've made your point," Garrett interrupted him with a snarl, before locking eyes with his contact. "I'll train the girl, but you'd better stay out of my business from now on." 

And with a disgruntled flap of his cloak, the master thief rushed out the door.

***

Gwenevere waited in the darkness. Basso had contacted her earlier that day, via a sweet little magpie, informing her of when and where this Garrett fellow would meet her. The bird had flown to her hideaway  beneath the bridges of Dayport, lead only by the words of a beloved master, and something far more convincing that only the mysterious green-eyed girl had possessed.

Said girl was growing nervous. What kind of man would she be dealing with, and furthermore, would he really be able to train her? What sort of man was it, who could mold a shapeless, forsaken flower such as she, into a skillful huntress of the night? Was it even possible? There was just so much uncertainty now; so much fear. Gwenevere's future now lay in two distinct directions: Forward, into the life of a wily thief and vigilante. Or down, into the cruel and unending torments of the destitute. Either, was a very real possibility. Because she could never go back to Lord Simmons. Not after what she had discovered. Not after what she had done.

As she went about pondering these disquieting revelations, a dark figure went about skulking ever closer to her unsuspecting form. Then, it spoke to her.

"So you're the girl Basso's gotten himself in a fuss over," its smoky voice rang from behind her. 

Gwenevere jumped, and spun around. Before her stood a dark figure, draped in a murky black hood. Stunning eyes flashed from beyond, and Gwenevere gasped when she realized that this was indeed the face of a man she was staring into. A mortal man, with two eye colors! His left eye was a deep brown, while his right was an inferno of silvery blue. The young woman had never seen such wondrous eyes before, and they fascinated her. 

Garrett frowned as she continued to gawk up at him, like a suspended mannequin with a broken jaw. Basso had gotten one thing right anyway. This girl, wasn't at all what he'd had been expecting. 

His first impressions of Gwenevere, were less than flattering. Fragile, breakable. A child parading as an adult. All things considered, she didn't appear to be anything special.   
The thief wasn't exactly one to talk, but she was also quite small. The women he tended to meet, were perhaps an inch or so shorter than he was. Embarrassingly enough, most were his height. Some, were even taller. Garrett was, by no means, a large man. And those elegant and lording females were the ones he secretly loved robbing the most. 

Gwenevere, was a good six inches shorter than he was--a revelation which prompted a slight grin to creep across the moonlighter's rugged face. But it didn't last when he began to realize, that everything about Gwenevere was unassuming. Those, were often the ones people had to worry about the most. And if Garrett had of somehow possessed the clairvoyance to comprehend that which would eventually come to pass from his involvement in her life, he would have bolted from that grimy moonlit alleyway without another breath. 

Yet somehow, he did always seem to get tangled up in these things. An unwanted gift, or perhaps, an unnoticed curse. 

The girl's eyes held a look of wild terror, intermingled with an almost sickening innocence. But there was something else within those eyes too. Something, that unsettled him.   
Poets and dreamers of his time, often said that the eyes were the windows into one's soul. And if that really was true, then Garrett glimpsed more than he'd bargained for within Gwenevere that night. An overlooked warning. Forbidden realms to which a mortal thief would soon become all too familiar. 

"You're not very adept to your surroundings, if you didn't even hear me coming," he admonished with a cold scoff.

To his surprise, just as quickly as she'd become rattled, the girl began to smile. It was a demure, gleeful sort of expression. The corners of her mouth were soft. Deep dimples holding up those supple nude lips, as her first words to him passed through. 

"Oh, hello! You must be Garrett, right?" she laughed at the end of her sentence, as if their meeting were merely a simple reunion between two old friends. 

Rather than a surprise encounter with a wanted criminal. 

The clouds moved swiftly overhead, allowing the moon's glossy rays to finally provide some luminance to that dismal world of smoke and shadows. That's when Garrett was finally able to get a better look at her. 

That hair of hers, was a brilliant blood-red. He knew the nobles often dyed their hair--for what purpose, a simple thief would never comprehend. At the time, that had been Garrett's first assumption. But something about Gwenevere's hair was...strange. More than just its stark tone. Something about the way it fell down her form, gave her an almost savage appearance. Almost like the mane of a proud beast. More like fur, than actual girlish tresses.

Her hair was so smooth, that Garrett could almost envision the silky texture from where he stood. If not for common sense, he'd of suspected that she'd somehow enchanted her hair to achieve such a supernatural radiance. Garrett almost fell into the fool mistake of asking the girl about her strange locks, but the cynical bastard in him prevailed, and the thief remained stoic and mute in the moonlight. 

All the while, she just kept staring up at him through those impossibly green eyes. 

"So, you're Garrett, huh?" that jovial smile of hers seemed to glow through the darkness surrounding them. 

"That your best guess?" he groused. 

It wasn't Garrett's greatest retort, but then again, this particular evening hadn't exactly been one of his favorites. 

Her cherubic little face sank at the thief's acidic remark. Gwenevere took up a strand of that lavish red hair flowing downward from her cloak, and started chewing on it. Now this, he wasn't expecting. Lock of hair still clenched snug between her teeth, she looked up at Garrett with those wide, perplexing eyes. 

"I-I...just assumed...because you know Basso..." her little upturned nose twitched as she spoke, like that of a rat in pursuit of stale rubbish. 

What?! Garrett raised a condescending eyebrow at that. How exactly did that idiot associate of his think that such a naïve kid would be useful? Unless of course, Basso had wanted her for a more 'recreational' purpose. The very idea caused the thief to cringe. 

Ever since Jenivere had left him some years back, Basso had gone through women and booze at a pretty consistent rate. All the more reason for the thief not to go getting himself tangled up in that which his fellows deemed, 'normal'. According to the ever-callous Garrett, relationships were like throwing coins into the South Quarter fountain. A waste of time, and money. 

Speaking of which... the thief looked at Gwenevere again. 

Garrett looked the little 'prodigy' over, trying to gauge if the girl had anything of value on her. His fingers simultaneously groped the bulging sack of coin tucked into his leather knapsack. Yet in spite of that, he was still having mixed feelings about this so-called favor. It wasn't too late to just back out, after all. When Garrett saw a brief twinkle come from the girl's wrist, he considered just mugging her, and leaving back the way he'd come. Unfortunately, that teasing glimmer hadn't been at all what he was expecting. 

"Hey, sir?" 

Her high-pitched voice stirred the thief from his lazy perusal. Garrett once again made eye contact with Gwenevere, taking notice of the way she gawked upward with intrigue at his metal prosthetic. She'd been doing so the entire time, and it was beginning to seriously irk him.

"What?" he snapped.

Most people he came across couldn't help but wonder about his uncanny right eye. Garrett was content to simply assume, that some taffers didn't have anything better to do. But there was just something odd about how this particular girl never broke focus with it. For a noble, Gwenevere certainly hadn't been broken in as such. She was proving to be just about as rude and inconsiderate as the rest of the lowlife ilk the thief avoided.

"I-I..." she stammered, with a visible tremble. 

"Spit it out," Garrett demanded, releasing a frustrated sigh from his nostrils. She seemed to gather herself at that, straightening her posture almost robotically. 

Creepy...he thought. Maybe she had been trained after all.

"I was just wondering who you are, if you're not Garrett," she blurted, her words almost too muddled and quick for the moonlighter's ears. 

"Bit late, aren't you?"

"Huh?" she blinked. Garrett rolled his eyes at that, wishing that this aggravation would just run its course, and end.

It didn't.

"Okay, yeah. Turns out your little 'assumption' was correct. I am Garrett." 

The girl's eyes began to gleam like two Pagan torchlights at his confession. When the clouds once again devoured the desperate moon, Gwenevere began to bound with glee.

"Oh! So then that must mean you've come to train me!" she clapped.

The thief found it was almost amusing--how she automatically assumed that he'd be a willing participant in Basso's little scheme. But then again, Garrett supposed that the nobles just expected everyone else to go along with their every whim. And if that were indeed the case here, Gwenevere Simmons was going to be very disappointed.   
Because she wasn't dealing with Basso anymore, or anyone else who'd be charmed by her playful antics, and moderately pleasing looks. Now, she was dealing with him. 

"I didn't say that," Garrett snapped. Gwenevere seemed to visibly wilt. 

"So, you aren't gonna teach me to become a thief?" she leaned forward on her toes, her tiny hands clenched firmly up to her unexceptional chest.

"I don't know. Are you worth my time, or not?" he barked.

"W-what do you mean?" she craned her head to the side.

"What do you think that means, you vacant-skulled tart?" Garrett grumbled under his breath.

Gwenevere didn't appear to hear him, as she took a hesitant step towards the towering hooded man. Trust was evident within her light steps, though her little hands were trembling as she touched the sides of her cowl. She seemed almost unsure of how to remove the thing from her head, her fingers twitching. 

Garrett cleared his throat, startling her.

"Care to tell me how a Simmons gets involved with a lowlife such as Basso?"

"Oh...you heard about that, huh?"

"Why the hell do you think I'm here, talking to you?" Garrett remarked coldly. "Do you honestly think just because I'm a commoner, that I don't have anything better to do?"

"W-what?!" Gwenevere leapt back. "I never said--"

"--Well, it's pretty apparent," the thief sneered. "After all, that's all your kind ever does. Assume that the world's owed to them. Assume that they can get away with anything. And if you think for even a second, that I'm about to be swayed by something as trivial as your bloodline, then you're gravely mistaken, kid."

"Wait! You've got it all wrong!" Gwenevere yipped. "I'm not a Simmons! I-I ran away! Surely Basso's told you that, yes?" 

"He told me that you want freedom. Want something more. Listen kid, I know you think you're some sort of 'lost sheep'. A real taffing savant. The first noble to ever rebel in order to see the real world."

"B-but I really am not a--" Gwenevere peeped.

The next look Garrett gave her, was absolutely terrifying, and it silenced her forthwith. The shadows of the alley licked and mingled amidst those of the thief's cowl, giving his face a most foul and imposing appearance. 

"But trust me when I say, that plenty of others have come before you. And most of them, end up face-down in the gutter. Because, truth is, no matter how special you think that blood of yours actually is, it can still be spilt like anyone else's..."

The young woman looked downward, watching as a cockroach weaved in and out of the cracks in the cobblestone. Trying to hide the wavering fear within her eyes.   
Gwenevere already knew that she could very well die down here. Regardless of what this hooded man thought, he was wrong about her. She wasn't anything like the others. She didn't even belong anywhere near high society. 

But one of the thief's statements was indeed correct: The nobles, assumed that they could get away with anything. Lord Simmons, certainly had. For many years. At least until three days prior, when Gwenevere had finally managed to sneak free from his greedy clutches. 

"Well, if that's what you believe," she huffed, crossing her arms and pouting. "Then I suppose there really is no use in arguing any further. Seems you've already made up your mind about me..."

That all you got? Garrett smirked, crossing his arms. Did she honestly expect him to care?!

They must have stood there like that for at least five minutes; two cloaked, stubborn figures in the dark. But the thief's arrogance proved stronger, when Gwenevere threw up her arms and began to wail.

"Why do you think I'm like that?!" she shrieked, nearly rupturing Garrett's unguarded eardrums in the process. "You don't even know me!"

"Taff kid!" he exclaimed with a visible cringe. "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

This was proving to be much worse than he was expecting. She was a whiny noble's girl.

"You can't just do that to people, ya know? Judging them like that?" Gwenevere stomped her foot. "You can't just get my hopes up, and then refuse to teach me! That's mean!"

Oh, can't I? Garrett's grin grew smug, as the girl kept right on running her trap.

"Did you just come here to make fun of me then?" she accused. "You're a big mean, burrick-faced jerk!" 

"Excuse me?" He raised his eyebrow at that. Things had certainly escalated rather quickly. Gwenevere continued.

"You heard me! Why would I ever need your help anyway? I bet I can do it without you and everything!"

"Wanna bet?" Garrett bit back when the opportunity presented itself.

He sneered at the very idea of this handfed brat pilching so much as a copper from even the most unobservant merchant. She could barely span two seconds without making some distracting noise, after all.

"I don't make bets, least of all with jerks!" Gwenevere sneered, attempting to push her way past him. "So get out of my way, you, you--"

Before the girl could expel another syllable from those obnoxious entitled lips of hers, Garrett advanced. Gwenevere yelped like a beaten dog as he forced her up against the wall of the alleyway. She tried to slip past, but the thief easily trapped the girl, by planting his left arm against the wall behind her. Garrett heard her gasp, as he moved in closer. Her gaze met his as the thief towered above her, and Garrett swore he saw those primitive irises of hers flash.

"Don't act so tough kid. You're in my world now," he sneered, leering down at her. Gwenevere continued to gawk up at him, her expression a mixture of vehemence, and fear. 

"Listen," he growled, without giving her a moment to respond, "I'll teach you not to get killed down here, but you've got to do exactly what I say. Is that gonna be a problem?"

"N-no..." she peeped.

"That's what I thought," Garrett snorted, his breath visible against the frosty nightscape.

But the master thief's victory over the noble girl was unfortunately short-lived. Everything was about to capsize.


	3. The Test

Garrett had never liked being followed. But when he could easily hear someone being that obvious about it...

He froze atop the sturdy wooden railing of a rather shabby little duplex, the slumbering residents within none the wiser. Casting his scrutinizing glare down into the filth-ridden alleyway below, he continued to watch Gwenevere as she scampered about. It was immediately apparent that she was having some obvious difficulty keeping up. The girl kept tripping over everything in her path, stumbling as if blind amidst a fairly well-lit street. 

"Could you be any louder?" he hissed, startling her. Gwenevere looked up at him, her eyes quivering beneath the streetlights. 

"I-I'm sorry!" Gwenevere apologized. "I've never been out alone much, least of all in this part of town."

Garrett rolled his eyes with a hostile sneer. Of course daddy's little princess never ventured far from the castle. And certainly, not without an escort, he imagined.   
The thief remained stoic as he watched her walk unwittingly into a low-hanging pipe. The loud metallic clang, was quickly proceeded by a painful groan from his new, red-haired burden. The ruckus was enough to cause some stirring from the downstairs tenants, as several of the windows beneath him began to light up. 

"Great. Now you've gone and woke the inhabitants," he chastised. "Better pick up those feet and start running, before they come outside to investigate."

Gwenevere turned around, fidgeting with fright as drowsy voices began buzzing from beyond the veil of saffron light. She backed away from the window, tripping over a discarded bottle in the process. Garrett cringed as he watched the girl fall back into a pile of crates, creating an even louder disruption than before. Gwenevere looked up at his perch, her hair strewn with debris, and a look of utmost embarrassment plastered across her delicate features. The master thief rubbed his temples. This, was NOT going to work out. 

Before either of them could react, the door to the apartment building swung open. Out stepped a rather fat man in his trousers and nothing else, a wooden cane in tow. At first, the ever-naïve young lady suspected that he required the object for balance. Her assumptions were quickly dismissed however, once the man had noticed her. 

"Oi! What the 'ell are you doin'? Sneakin; about outside my door at this hour?!" he demanded in a cold, ugly sort of tone. 

Gwenevere's green eyes danced with hurt. He didn't even care that she had fallen. He automatically expected only the worst from her. Much like everyone else the poor girl seemed to meet.

From his vantage point ten feet above the commotion, Garrett continued to survey Gwenevere's reactions. Even if the worst were to transpire, the thief wasn't about to intervene. After all, why should he risk his neck, when this foolish and upstart girl had caused her own misfortune? He had enough of his own, at present.  
The man pointed his cane into her face, and sneered.

"Out with it, tramp! What the 'ell are you doin'?!"

Gwenevere couldn't move. She couldn't speak either, despite the obvious misunderstanding of the situation. Some part of her already knew, that words wouldn't help her now. Much like Garrett, this man had already made up his mind regarding her intentions and character. Perhaps, that was why she did what she did. Narrowing her eyes in upset concentration, Gwenevere locked eyes with the accusatory tenant. As she gradually lifted her dazed form from the splintered mess of wood and rubbish, the man waved his cane at her. 

"Oi! Get back! I don't care if yer a lady--you try anything, and I'll--"

He never had a chance to finish that sentence. Garrett's eyes went wide, as a heavenly glow began to emanate from every corner of the young runaway's body. Her eyes glazed over, and began to gleam a freakish white. The man interrogating her began to back away into his apartment, clearly terrified. He'd been expecting a vagrant, a teenage miscreant. Or perhaps even a rogue housebreaker. With his bulk and that solid wooden cane in tow, he'd been evenly prepared for such altercations. But magic--now that, was an entirely different story.

"What the..." Garrett whispered, his eyes narrowing in utmost disbelief, as Gwenevere unleashed the full brunt of her spell. 

A brilliant luminosity erupted within the alleyway, devouring shadow and exposing every secret crevice in its wake. The man dropped his cane, and proceeded to shield his eyes from the harsh vibrancy, and Garrett squeezed his remaining eye tightly shut. His metal eye however, remained focused directly on Gwenevere. As his mind raced with dozens of questions and concerns, the girl's radiance subsided. Without another word, she tore off in the direction Garrett had been heading. The thief, chased after her. 

***

He caught up with her again without any difficulty. Leaping from the rafters, Garrett landed with an impact-absorbing squat directly in front of the enigmatic little vagabond. Gwenevere gasped, leaping back in terrified shock with her wrist against her gaping mouth. The girl then screamed in surprise, prompting Garrett to involuntarily rush forward and clasp a gloved hand around her gaping mouth. Gwenevere looked at him, her breathing returning to normal as she realized just who it was that held her. Those blue and hazel eyes were once again before her, burning with wild ambition.

"Never. Scream. No matter how fearful you become. There's seldom a better way to give away your position," he hissed in a low and serious tone. Sensing that he would only be angrier at her if she were to try and speak, Gwenevere simply nodded vigorously. 

The thief leered down at her, the full moon at his back. Gwenevere felt her body crumble into a mushy heap. His presence was the second most intimidating she'd ever witnessed. After what he'd just seen her do, the girl expected a mouthful. However, four simple words found her ears. But they were each laced with enough venom to drain the color from her face. 

"So, you're a mage?" he asked.

"Y-yes?" she gulped, unsure in that moment if that were even the correct answer. Garrett's presence had solidified her mind.

Without another sound, save for a rather primitive grunt, Gwenevere found herself being lifted off of her feet. It took a minute more before the stupor finally subsided, and she realized that Garrett had flung her over his shoulder. The girl kicked and flailed, infuriated by his boorish behavior.

"Hey! Put me down! What do you think you're--"

"--Just. Shut. Up," Garrett snarled, as he proceeded to sprint down the alleyway with her. 

And Gwenevere, did just that. 

***

Basso sat back in his chair with a groan, the wood creaking slightly beneath his proud girth. It had been a long, rather ludicrous day indeed. Maybe the gods did indeed have a sense of humor after all. 

"Tell that to all them stodgy Hammerites," the boxman grinned, his hat concealing most of his eyes. 

He was reaching for his pipe, when the front door to his subterranean hovel was violently kicked open. Basso leapt about six inches out of his chair, grappling for the closest thing he could find--which, was unfortunately, a rolled up newspaper. Thankfully, however, the man who came bursting into his establishment thereafter, was a familiar face. A furious, rigid face which, by some more of the god's stellar comedy gold, had aged far better than his.

Garrett carried Gwenevere across the room, before setting her down in front of Basso. The irate thief pointed at the bewildered redhead, his expression wild with fury.

"You didn't tell me that she was a MAGE!"

"Oh, er," Basso murmured in a nonchalant manner, not even making eye contact with the thief as he proceeded to sit back down in his chair, "is that, gonna be a problem for ya?"

Garrett's pupils dilated in seething umbrage. He slammed both of his hands down hard against the boxman's termite-eaten desk, startling both Basso and Gwenevere. The former nearly dropped his pipe, fumbling with it clumsily for a few seconds before it could send a pile of tobacco down into his lap. Once he'd regained control over the thing, Basso shot his mate a very annoyed glare. But Garrett didn't seem to take notice.

"She's a noble AND a mage! What is this Basso?! You trying to see just how much heat it takes to get me caught and hung?! You KNOW the baron's been cracking down on magic, just as much as he's been trying to get everyone to forsake the old gods. Outside of the factions and the Hand Brotherhood, mages are extremely scarce now!"

Basso clicked his tongue in a condescending manner, shaking his head as he proceeded to light his pipe.

"Hence the reason I figured the gal'd be useful to our little, shall we say, 'operation'." Basso shut his eyes and began puffing his pipe. The smoke rings billowed and danced around the room, fascinating Gwenevere, and framing Garrett's miffed expression. "Besides, so long as she keeps it under wraps, how the taff's anyone gonna find out?"

"She flashed her powers right in front of some random villager tonight! She's not exactly discreet about it, Basso! You've got me playing tour guide to a showy little time bomb here! Do you have any idea what will happen to me if I get tied to any of this?!" 

"Thought ya never got caught?" Basso opened one eye, and looked the thief over discerningly. 

Garrett's fingers balled into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white. He glanced over his shoulder at Gwenevere. The girl was curiously batting at the smoke rings as they drifted past her head. Garrett sighed hard, bending over to the boxman's eye level. Basso opened his other eye.

"Tell me Basso. Just when did you go hopelessly and irrevocably insane?"

"The real question, my friend," Basso pointed at his mate, "is was I ever sane at all?"

"Great. And how is that supposed to make me feel any better?"

"It's not." 

Garrett rolled his eyes with a sigh, straightening his posture. The thief shook his head, throwing up his hands in finality.

"That's it. I'm done. I'm not doing this again." 

It was likely Garrett was referring to any of the numerous neophytes, and lower ranking housebreakers Basso had introduced him to over the last two years. But something about his defensive stance, told an entirely different story. Basso had known Garrett for over two decades by this point in their lives. Suffice to say, dense as he could sometimes appear, the boxman had an eye for these subtle little changes in character. 

"Gwenevere," Basso called. Once the girl was looking at him, he wiggled a finger at her. Gwenevere gleefully skipped over to him.

"Yes?" she inquired.

"Go on outside for a minute, hon. I need ta speak to this stubborn taffer in private," he winked.

Gwenevere nodded, happy that at least one of these men was on her side. Despite his rough edges, Basso seemed like a pretty nice guy.

"'Kay!" she beamed, before running out the door. 

"And don't wander off or nothin'!" the boxman hollered after her. He looked up at Garrett with a toothy grin, pipe clenched firmly between his jaw. "Kids today, am I right?"

"I wouldn't know," the thief sneered coldly, turning away. Basso huffed, and puffed harder on his pipe. A moment of silence and smoke permeated the air, as both men remained tense and irritable. Then, Basso got an idea.

"Maybe we should give her a test? Find out if she's got the goods..."

"What?!" Garrett looked at the boxman with immodest belittlement.

"No listen, hear me out! Tell her to steal something--something even a kid like her could take without makin' a big stink. If she fails at something THAT simple, I promise you I'll forget the whole arrangement, and you can KEEP that money I gave you. No strings attached."

Garrett raised an eyebrow at that. It was indeed a tempting proposition. IF, Gwenevere failed.

"And if she pulls it off?" he asked.

"Then I'm afraid yer just gonna have to swallow yer prejudice towards them fancy folk, and train the gal. No more bellyaching. Or kicking my door in, for that matter..."

The thief mulled over the possibilities in his head for a while, methodically calculating such a clumsy noble girl's chances for success. They weren't very good. Beneath his cloak, Garrett groped at that copious sack of silver coins again. In the end, what did he really have to lose? Either way, he would get to keep all of this money. With some lingering reluctance, the enigmatic moonlighter extended his gloved hand to Basso.

"Deal," he decreed. 

Basso's crummy grin expanded, as he grasped the thief's offered extremity. The two men shook on their new arrangement, as the sound of a train blared off somewhere in the distance. 

"I knew you'd come to yer senses sooner or later, Garrett. Now, here's what I propose..."

***

For the remainder of that adventitious evening, Garrett allowed Gwenevere to walk. The pair of cloaked figures made their way across the city, their shadows long and foreboding against the brick buildings. Every so often, the thief would chance a peek down at his undesired tag along, but she would never notice his gaze. Gwenevere appeared far too busy taking in the rest of the world around her. 

Garrett had never seen someone look upon his city with such awe and wonder reflected within their eyes. Every stone structure she passed, was touched upon by her tiny hands. Industry smog was inhaled graciously, and scraggly alley cats were stroked. The thief would watch all of these behaviors with an air of reticent fascination. It was as though the girl truly found this place of anguish and broken dreams...beautiful. 

But his interest in her antics was always brief, before the thief would once again resume his pace. He wasn't concerned about leaving Gwenevere behind, after all. Not in the least. However, the starry-eyed waif would always notice his departure in time to catch up with him. A most unfortunate serendipity.

At last, Garrett came to a halt just outside of a rather grandstanding inn. Gwenevere caught up with him for the forth time that evening--a stray dog having been the source of her distraction this last time. The young woman gazed up at the looming structure, her lips gaping at the impressive size. It was also quite an elegant building; draped in ferns and surrounded by a lush and thriving rose garden. 

"Wow! What IS this place?" Gwenevere whispered.

"You mean to tell me that a rich girl like you has never been to the Golden Dragon inn?" Garrett chided with a snort. Gwenevere blushed.

"Well, I told you. I wasn't allowed out very often..."

"Right..." the thief stretched the word like taffee. "Well, it's kind of a prestigious establishment, so I figured you'd at least know of the place..."

A moment of awkward silence passed between the two, until Gwenevere began chewing her hair again out of boredom.

"Sooo...what are we doing here anyway?" she asked, a strand of sticky carmine still clinging to the side of her cheek. 

"Don't chew your hair," Garrett muttered, refusing to even look at her. "Basso wants you to prove yourself by stealing something straight away. So this is the sight of your first test. If you're going to be doing jobs for him, then we need to make sure that you at least know the basics."

Gwenevere wiped the moist hair from her face, and gawked up at her new mentor. Her eyes blossomed with excitement.

"Ooh, a test? Is that what you guys were talking about when I left the room?"

"You should mind your own business..." Garrett groused. "Go into room twelve. An old guard named Demetre's staying in there," he continued, pointing up to a single, darkened window on the second floor. 

"Okay, who's he?" Gwenevere cocked her head. Garrett sighed hard, and began massaging his throbbing temples. 

"A guard. I just told you that. He's in town just for the week. He used to live around here, but that was before he was knighted. Now, he has a cushy little manse up in Auldale. You've probably had a pot luck with the guy, or tea party, or whatever you nobles do for fun," he poisoned. Gwenevere visibly bristled at the irksome remark, but managed to stifle her frustration.

"Well, I don't see what any of this has to do with stealing!" she growled. 

"This shouldn't be the hardest part. Do I seriously have to explain everything to you?" Garrett groaned. "Recently, he was awarded a medal for his upstanding services to the people. You know, beating them and the like. A saint worthy of the Hammers, if you ask me," the thief added, foul malice souring his words. 

"Hammers? But I thought you said he was a guard..."

"Forget it," Garrett seethed. "Just make your way up to his room and snag that medal. I'll be waiting."

As soon as she heard those last words, the zest within Gwenevere's eyes fizzled out and died. 

"You...want me to go alone?"

"Yeah," the thief finally acknowledged  her presence through his mechanical eye. It glowered down at her viciously from the confines of his shadowy cowl. "That gonna be a problem?"

"N-no!" Gwenevere spoke hurriedly, "I-I guess I just thought...that there would be some sort of, oh I don't know...training, involved first?"

"To be frank, stealing is easy. The part I've agreed to assist you with, is not getting caught."

"But after I take it..."

"Listen, Gwendolyn--"

"--It's, Gwenevere, actually..." the girl cut him off bitterly. Garrett's eyes narrowed at that.

"Do you think it matters to me what you're pretty little name is?" he snapped. "Listen up! If you can't even do something as simple as following an order, then what use are you to either Basso or myself?" 

She shut her mouth after that. 

"So, you want me to steal the metal then?" Gwenevere asked dryly, her face still quite upset.

"Affirmative."

"So, how am I supposed to get in there anyway?"

"Figure it out," Garrett replied apathetically. 

Gwenevere nodded, though it was apparent that she was still very confused and disoriented. The thief half expected her to end up arrested by evening's end. Back with her doting parents, who no doubt would throw a lavish homecoming banquet for their little lost puppy upon her return. 

"I'll do my best, Garrett!" Gwenevere proclaimed, saluting him. It was an odd gesture of respect for the thief, to say the least. Why she'd done that, he'd never understand. But of course, that summed up nearly everything he'd witnessed Gwenevere do thus far. 

"Just hope that your best is enough. After you've taken the medal, we'll rendezvous behind the clock tower. If you're not out of there in an hour, you're on your own. I'm sure your wealthy parents will be more than happy to bail you out..." he remarked dryly. 

Gwenevere tensed. Hadn't Garrett been listening to her? She had made it perfectly clear that she was no Simmons, and that she could never return to that mansion.

"I told you! I'm not--" she began, but was quickly interrupted.

"--Point is, if you taff this up, I'm not gonna be there to fix your mess..." the thief warned. Gwenevere took a step back, cleared her head, and forced herself to smile.

"Then the answer is simple: I get the medal without taffing anything up!" she winked.

Garrett grumbled almost silently to himself as he watched the girl waltz through the front door of the inn and up to the front desk. A part of him was morbidly curious to see just how quickly her performance would go awry, but he resisted the urge to tail her. Garrett reasoned that it was probably best if he stayed as far away as possible from Gwenevere when he wasn't 'training' her. 

He had a horrible sinking feeling that this girl was going to cause him trouble one day. 

***

The long bukhara  rug crumpled beneath her hesitant steps, as Gwenevere approached room twelve. Much to her dismay, the innkeeper hadn't been kind enough to give her a spare key. She had asked nicely and everything, too! After he'd finished shaking his head, Gwenevere had headed back towards the entryway--only to make a sharp turn up the staircase instead when he wasn't looking. She did, after all possess some sneaking abilities. She'd escaped Lord Simmons, after all.

It was too dark for the young woman to make out most of the upper hallway, but moonlight shone through several of the windows, allowing her to navigate. As she proceeded down the dark path, her mind raced. What did this medal even look like? Why would Garrett send her after it without even telling her this? That's when Gwenevere remembered a sketchy detail about her lavish past life. The entire Simmons family had been present at several prestigious award ceremonies over the last several years. Gwenevere had witnessed many a medallion, ribbon, or honor in that time period, and she remembered how intricate and beautiful they all were. It was no wonder why a thief would covet such a rarified prize. 

She began searching her mind for images of the specific medal used to knight bluecoats, and eventually, she remembered. A circular golden brooch, with silver leaves framing the crest of the baron. This was yet another test by her wizened mentor. Garrett had known-- well in advance--that a member of uppercrust society such as Gwenevere, would know exactly what these medals looked like. He wanted her to fend for herself, by using her past knowledge as an advantage.

At least, that's what the ever-trusting Gwenevere had assumed. In truth, Garrett hadn't given a damn about the success of her mission. If anything, he was hoping she'd find a way to foul it up.

"I know what I'm after now, but I still don't know where he keeps it," she mumbled to herself as she reached the door to Demetre's room. Feeling lucky, Gwenevere gave the doorknob a jiggle. Locked. 

"Oh great. Now what?" she mulled with a whisper. 

Gwenevere began to wonder why Garrett and Basso even suspected this guard of carrying his metal around with him. Wasn't there an even better chance that it was still at his home in Auldale? It was, after all, a very prestigious award. Despite what the thief seemed to think of her, Gwenevere was far from stupid. The thought had indeed crossed her mind that this was merely some cruel initiation. 

Whatever the case, she had to at least try. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she brayed on the door.

RAP! RAP!

Sounds could be heard rustling about from within the twelfth hotel room, as Gwenevere stood twiddling her thumbs in eager anticipation. At last, the door swung open, and a rather large man stepped out. He was already dressed in his night robe, though there was something glimmering between the gaps in his neckline. It was immediately apparent, that this, was exactly what she was after. Obviously, he hadn't expecting anyone to come calling at this hour. Least of all, a petite young girl. He stared down inquisitively at Gwenevere, raising an eyebrow when she waved coyly at him. 

"Um, hello!" she greeted, shrugging her shoulder upward as she continued to waggle her fingers. 

"An' who might you be then?" the man asked in a deep, cockney accent. 

"Oh me?" Gwenevere's eyes widened, "well, isn't it obvious?"

The guard's eyes narrowed, a firm frown plastering itself across his lips.

"Oh taff. Not another one," he groaned. "Right, I already told about fifty girls at my birthday dinner tonight--I'm a happily married man!"

"Well that's great!" the girl cheered. "Uhh, why would that have anything to do with ME though?" Gwenevere's eyes softened in confusion, her lips pursed.

"Ya mean ye ain't some lusty lass after a bonafide knight?" he challenged. 

Something told Gwenevere, that although this man claimed not to be interested in any of his many admirers, he still very much enjoyed having them.

"Umm, well no."

"Urm," the guard snorted. "Well then who are ya?"

"I'm...I'm..." the girl picked her brain for a believable response. "I'm the maid!" she proclaimed with a wide grin.

"The maid?" Demetre crossed his arms. "It's three in the mornin'..."

"Oh, er...I'm with the...after midnight crew?" Gwenevere tried. 

"Yeah? Well me room's cleaner than a priest's bedsheets, so if ya don't mind, I've got some serious sleepin' ta do!" he snapped, and proceeded to try and slam the door on the flustered girl's face. But she moved too quickly. 

"Hey! Wait a minute!" 

Ramming her way into his room, Gwenevere made a mad grab for the guard's medallion. She tore it free from his neck, with surprising ease--though she also ended up with a few dark chest hairs in the process as well. Demetre hollered in a mixture of both surprise and pain, then watched Gwenevere sprint away from his room. His medal in tow. 

"Thank you! Bye!" she giggled.

The guard's expression exploded with fury. He clumsily grabbed for his trusty longsword, and tore out of the hotel room after her. 

"Oi! Come back here you! Stop, thief!"

***

Gwenevere had never felt such a primitive rush before! Her heart was pounding against her sternum as she ran, the world meshing and blurring as she tore past the screams and shocked faces of the Golden Dragon's many guests and workers. 

Placing the torn ribbon of the medallion between her teeth, the girl used both of her free hands to push open the double doors of the establishment, and sprinted out into the foggy Autumn streets. Brisk cold welcomed her, invigorating her as she continued to tear across the night. Demetre was in pretty great shape for an older man, and he consistently remained about fifteen feet behind her at all times. That was until Gwenevere took a harsh left, and slid into the embrace of the clocktower's imposing shadow.   
Garrett was there, waiting for her just as discussed. The thief scowled down at her chaotic composure, and loud panting.

"Not used to running, I take it?" he mocked.

"No, it isn't that," Gwenevere fought to speak while still in the process of catching her breath, "this was just so exciting!"

Garrett rolled his eyes at her naive optimism. 

"Did you get the medal?" he inquired bluntly.

"Yes, yes. Come on, let's go now!" Gwenevere replied, urgency prevalent within her breathless voice. 

The thief brows furrowed at her brazen defiance. No one, gave him orders!

"No," he snarled. "Let me see it then."

"There's no time for that!" Gwenevere argued. 

When she heard the loud resounding crashes of heavy boots trampling cobblestone, her instincts took over and she attempted to flee on her own. But the master thief wasn't having any of it. He grabbed Gwenevere by the cloak, and spun her around to face him. The girl gulped when she looked into his face. It was stoic and formidable.

"I'm only gonna ask you once. What's going--"

A berserk bluecoat appearing from around the bend answered the thief's unfinished question. Demetre was outraged by this point, swinging his blade around like a deranged, homicidal madman. 

"Give me back my medal, ya thieving little tramp!" he bellowed. 

Gwenevere wailed, struggling against Garrett's grip in a desperate attempt to flee. But the thief held her firm. 

"Garrett, let me go! Can't you see he's gonna kill me?!" she shrieked. Though she couldn't be sure, Gwenevere thought she saw a mischievous grin draw up the corners of Garrett's mouth--but only for a moment. "GARRETT! LET ME--"

As she yowled and hissed like a wet cat, Demetre charged. Garrett reacted immediately, dropping the girl and reaching into his cloak. Gwenevere landed on her rump with a yip, and looked up over her shoulder at her most unorthodox new mentor. The thief appeared to have something spherical clutched loosely between the fingers of his right hand. 

Demetre lowered his blade, dashing forward at full speed with every intention to run the moonlighter through. A sparse grin donned Garrett's face, and as the furious guard came within three feet of his person, the thief tossed a gas bomb squarely into the man's face. Demetre gulped and wheezed, dropping his blade and falling to his knees. Within seconds, he'd passed out cold right there in the street. 

Gwenevere cautiously craned her head out from behind Garrett to examine the scene. When she noticed the unconscious guard, she rose to her feet, clapping her hands and marveling at just how easily Garrett had incapacitated an armed bluecoat. A knighted one, at that. 

"Wow! That was amazing!" she cheered. 

The thief offered no response. Instead, he made his way over to Demetre's slumbering form, and began searching the guard for any valuables. A rather thick wedding band in white gold, and a heavy sack of coin were fitting rewards for the trouble Gwenevere's latest show of incompetence had warranted. 

"You know, there's something artistic about being a thief," he murmured, still keeping his back to the girl. "Something thrilling. The suspense fills you with adrenaline, and you have to fight it back down to keep from making stupid mistakes, or moving too quickly along the way." 

Garrett slowly stood from Demetre's body, before gradually sauntering back towards the impressed redhead. Gwenevere's smile crumbled however, as soon as she noticed his face. He was glowering down at her, those surreal eyes of his blazing with contempt. 

"No surprise to see that you've completely soiled on the craft with your first attempt," he sneered.

"Huh? What are you saying?" Gwenevere squawked, feeling incredibly insulted. "I got the medal and everything!" 

"You nearly got yourself killed," Garrett hissed. "As I mentioned earlier--I've seen my share of rebellious rich brats come through here. But even if they eventually found it, none of them were actively hunting for their own demise."

"I--" the girl whimpered, at a loss for how to respond to such harsh criticism. It seemed to Gwenevere that her new teacher despised her with a vengeance, although she couldn't be sure why. "But I got it..." 

"Look, kid. I don't even care if you managed to pass Basso's little test by the skin of your pretty little teeth. You're hopeless as a thief, and you're going to get yourself killed. Before that happens, I suggest you take that medal to Basso--alone. I've had about all I can stand out of you for one evening..." 

Before Gwenevere could object, Garrett had disappeared.    


	4. The Misunderstanding

Deep within the hollow core of The City's monolithic clocktower, a trap door swung open. Dozens of rats raised their shaggy faces in unison, ruby pinprick eyes glistening in the darkness as another, far more hated creature of the night returned to his domain. Garrett's boots caused the ancient floorboards beneath him to squeak and moan, as he traversed the innermost area of his sanctum. 

He'd explored the clocktower years prior, and although the structure had since been rebuilt, those predictable Hammers were still slaves to their rituals. And more importantly, their schematics. Garrett recalled the air duct, located high above the dreary roads of Stonemarket. It was still accessible after all these years. More importantly, it still fed directly into the clocktower. 

They'd never bother to search the upper tiers for him, even if the Hammerites still had access to the place. Baron Northcrest had declared the tower a national monument, around eight or nine years back. Garrett couldn't be too bothered with remembering the details. Basso was the one who kept up with all that paltry trivia. All that mattered--and all the thief cared about--was that no one would ever find him up here.

After taking up residence seven years back, Garrett had since found other means of accessing the clocktower. The Hammerites had always been a crafty bunch, and by some twisted logic, the thief had always appreciated their passion for constructing trap doors and secret passages into their structures. Always made things just a little bit easier for him. 

This, was by no means, a lofty apartment. But it was rent-free, reasonably safe, and since becoming a landmark, it no longer chimed. Something had gone wrong with the gearworks several months prior to the baron's decree. Of course, the Hammerites had adamantly petitioned Northcrest to grant them permission to correct the problem. The baron refused; stating that the bell tower in Dayport already did a sufficient job of keeping time. Suffice to say, it was no surprise why he wasn't the most popular regent with the order. 

The thief came to a stop before an open window, his mind riddled with chaos and a deep disgust. The moon was bright that evening, although the city smog had snuffed out the delicate stars. Motes of dust stirred up from his stroll across the spacious room danced against the stark brilliance, whilst the thief studied the sky in contemplative silence. His predatory eyes flashed in the secluded darkness of his domain. 

That kid. There was something...off, about her. Why would a noble give up everything they were, everything they had, to do what he did? Those who'd come before her--they never wanted any of that. They wanted to get away from their overbearing parents, from their mundane tasks and responsibilities. But to become a common, hard-working criminal? Not a chance. Even the dreamers amongst their kind had far too much pride for that.

So why then? Why would anyone chose such a path? Although he had since come to enjoy, and take great pride in his work, Garrett had never initially planned on becoming a thief. It wasn't as though he'd blissfully awoken one morning, and foolishly decided to throw away everything he had. He had very few memories of his childhood that weren't stained by bloodshed or anguish. But by far, the worst ones stemmed from the time he'd spent as an orphan on the city streets. 

After what had transpired on that terrible night in late August, fate had decreed him little more than a fortunate waif, following the death of his parents. Fate--or, as the more pious would say, the Builder--had chosen to spare him. But even back in those adventurous and reckless days of his youth, the thief's cynical mind denounced such notions. In fact, they had become the cornerstone of Garrett's agnostic beliefs. 

If the Builder had, indeed saved his life on that horrible day, then why hurtle him right back into the maw of unadulterated chaos and suffering? Why banish a young boy to the cold and repugnant streets of The City? To a place where death would have surely awaited, had Artemus not pried the lad free of its slithering clutches. No, if the Builder was such a 'good' god, then why take away his parents and siblings at all? 

Garrett had long ago decided, that if there really was in fact a god--beyond the cloven beast he'd since slain--then that god decidedly abhorred him. 

But that had all been such a long time ago. Nowadays, he rarely felt compelled to reflect on the matter at all. Let alone, his past. 

Leaning against one of the dusty walls of his domain, Garrett allowed his sinewy form to slide down and find the floor. He began to ponder Basso's little arrangement again. He thought of the girl. Had he been a kinder man, Garrett would have found himself utterly embarrassed by the fact that he'd already forgotten her name. Again. It wasn't Gwendolyn--she'd as much told him that. 

Garrett wet his lips, and turned his head to admire the countless treasures and valuables he had hoarded over the years. Rare gems, exquisite pieces of jewelry, and some treasures he'd kept merely to remind him of past conquests. Among these, was a pesky yet beautiful horn which seemed to follow him around quite a bit. The thief scoffed silently to himself, his grin a barely visible crescent. He'd given up on trying to sell that thing, choosing to just keep it amidst the collection instead. 

"I really have gotten greedy over the years," he released a thirsty chuckle. "My, 'downfall' must be imminent by this point."

He mused dryly, recalling those odious yet palatial cursed statues he'd encountered so many years ago, whilst hunting for the fabled Talisman of Earth. The haunting premonition now lingering within his ears, Garrett pulled free the bulging coin purse that Basso had given him. His long fingers fished in and removed a single silver coin. The thief watched the currency shimmer in the moonlight, with the same enthusiasm any other man might exhibit whilst undressing a woman. But for Garrett at least, this, was truly his greatest thrill. 

He began toying with the coin, guiding it over and under his slender digits. 

"What won't I do for a payout nowadays?" 

He flipped the coin, before effortlessly snagging it out of the air. Several years ago, that mentality might have begun to worry him. Garrett was a man who, until a year ago, had prided himself highly on his standards. His, seeming invulnerability to a female's charms, or the needs of the flesh. He took conscious efforts to separate both his personal life, and his work--though, only on rare occasions could he differentiate the two anymore. He was a man in his early forties by this point, after all. Often, when mortals reached the Autumn years of their existences, work became life, if there failed to be anything personal.

He thought of the ruby-haired girl again. The thief wondered if she'd managed to make it back to wherever she was staying without incident. It wasn't that he particularly cared--but all the same, it would be an added bonus for him if she failed to show up anymore. Dark thoughts snared at his mind like gnarled thorns, as the various ways a girl like that could find trouble and death bled their way into conscious thought. After picturing her skull being caved in by one of the Hammerites, Garrett forced himself to stop imagining. That image, was far too personal.

Shaking his head with a visible shudder, the thief frowned at his own disgust. It mattered not how she met her fate. The fact remained--Gweneth, didn't belong in his world.

Instead, the thief's mind returned to Basso, and Garrett began to ponder just what his mate was truthfully hoping to gain out of the girl. It wasn't an extra pair of hands--at least not where stealing was concerned. And the thief cringed when he began to imagine the other options. Of course, if the boxman were clever about it, he could always coerce the girl into selling out her folks, Garrett imagined. If Basso could somehow talk Gina into drawing out a map of her previous home, then perhaps she would be worth the trouble after all. But since when had Basso the Boxman EVER been clever?

Garrett decided, that if not Basso, then HE would be the one to try and persuade Gilda to draw up a little guide. Not that he'd be able to trust such a thing in its entirety, but the thief would at least be able to do his own research into the mysterious Simmons family manor from there. After all, Garrett still fully expected Gertrude to end up turning on him. And why shouldn't he? She was a noble, and a mage--both of which were completely untrustworthy in Garrett's opinion. 

So much uncertainty and mystery surrounded that girl, and even one unanswered question was too many. Especially when dealing with the infamous Simmons family. Being among one of the most influential of all the noble families, they were also rumored to be extremely close to the baron himself. Their manor was the second largest in the city; a practical palace. Only the baron's own Northcrest Manor managed to dwarf it by comparison. 

The master of the Simmons Manor, was Sir Vladimir Simmons. He had been a successful businessman long before he managed to befriend the baron, and he had always loved the more cut-throated and under the table aspects of industry. He was a sadistic man, who delighted in making other people's lives difficult. A true monster by any sense of the word. It was far from fantasy and rumor that he employed both assassins and mercenaries legally; a loophole that only one of the baron's closest friends could ever hope to pull off. The city had truly become a brutal place, but then again, it had never been the best place to live. 

Then, there was the matter of the lord's abode. Even if daddy's angel drew him a map with flaws, there would still be value to be found in it, considering the sheer lack of information regarding the interior of the Simmon's family manor. No thief had ever managed to break through the numerous elaborate traps and barriers, and the few who'd managed to retrace their steps in time to flee, all returned to the underworld bearing horrific tales of methodical traps, and cruel mechanical devices.   
Though far from his usual interest, Garrett had heard enough rumors to pique his curiosity. Grand rooms, laden with gold statues taller than church steeples. Each of these titans was reputed to fire curious beams from their eyes, whenever movement was detected. Floor traps lined with cruel spires, and even talk of a hall of fleet pendulums. While the thief wasn't sure how many of these rumors were actually true, the dangers of the estate were as transparent as glass. 

Either Lord Simmons was insanely wealthy beyond measure--or he had one hellish secret to hide. 

Garrett continued to gaze lazily up at the sky, bursting with the first drops of rain. What role did Master Simmon's audacious little daughter have to play in all this, if any?

***

Gwenevere reached the Crippled Burrick just after midnight, soaking wet and panting. Basso was there, going through some old crates and barrels. He seemed very anxious, though she couldn't be sure why. Removing the soaked outer cover from her frigid body, Gwenevere clutched the dripping cloak between her fingers. It was an object meant for show, after all--not for frolicking about in a violent Autumn rainstorm. 

"Um...Basso?" 

Basso shot up, nearly causing some loose pickle jars to clatter to the ground. He spun around, coming face to face with the young woman. That's when he happened to notice what she was wearing. Earlier that week, when she'd first come to him, the boxman had unabashedly taken more than a quick peek beneath that navy cloak she wore. But now, it was off of her lithe body completely, and what remained was little more than a celeste blue corset, and a very short skirt. Basso's jaw fell open, his eyes growing wide. This noble's girl, was wearing the garb of a common whore!

The material was obviously composed of either satin or silk, judging by how it lovingly clung to her curves due to its damp state. Silently licking the roof of his mouth, Basso fought to avert his eyes from Gwenevere's soaking body. When he caught sight of one of her nipples, he finally lost all composure. 

"The hell are you wearin'?!" he blurted, the words slipping free of his tongue before he could think to wrangle them. 

Gwenevere blinked before looking down at her outfit. 

"Oh this?" she tugged playfully at the lace lining of her skirt. "Well, after I ran away, I was still wearing my old clothes. I wanted to blend in, so I snuck into a place full of beautiful low-class ladies. That's where I nabbed this--isn't it just the cutest?" she squealed. 

"Uh...yep. Yep, itsa...it's cute...alright..." Basso wheezed, his voice weak and stammering.

"Ah, why thank you, kind sir!" Gwenevere nodded, giving the boxman a slight curtsey, and twirled around once. 

Through heated cheeks and a very flustered groin, Basso watched her little display. There wasn't anything sexual about any of it--save for the nature of the clothing itself. The entire exhibit was more reminiscent of a child modeling a new dress for their adoring parents, rather than a grown woman trying to entice a man. 

"Erm, kid?" he finally managed to ask, straightening his belt. Gwenevere ceased her little dance, and stared up at him. 

"Yes?"

"Now, not that I'm complaining, mind you," the boxman began, keeping his eyes closed so as not to violate the girl any further. "But if ya wanted to blend in, why the taff would you steal somethin' like that?!"

"Oh, well I couldn't find any in teal. Teal's my favorite color, ya know! But just look at this pretty blue one I got!" the girl chirped back, completely missing the point of his criticism. Basso slapped his palm against his forehead.

"Yep. Yep, gotta love teal. Gotta love teal..." he cleared his throat. "Anywaaay...Did'ja need something?"

"Uh-huh! I got the medal for you!"  Gwenevere nodded, feeling quite proud of herself. 

"Ya did?" the shocked expression donning Basso's features was quickly overshadowed by a jovial pride. "Well, let's see it then, kiddo!" 

Gwenevere searched the pockets of her soggy cloak, and produced one glittering medallion. Basso's eyes widened with glee.

"Excellent! Give it here!" he ordered, as exuberantly as a small child. 

Reluctantly, Gwenevere did as she was bade. It felt a bit odd to be parting with her newly stolen prize. But this was what she had to do, in order to secure her place amongst Garrett and Basso. So part with it, she did. Basso swiped the medal, and examined it carefully under the low light. Gwenevere smiled as she watched his pensive, analytical expression soften.

"Yes! Yes, this is definitely one of the baron's honorary medallions of esteemed knighthood! This'll fetch a nice price indeed!" he proclaimed, before turning back to Gwenevere. With a rather idiotic--yet strangely enduring--smile, he held out his free hand to her. 

Gwenevere craned her head at the offered extremity, biting her bottom lip in bewilderment. The boxman scratched his head. 

"Um, ya shake it," he instructed. Gwenevere batted her eyelids up at him.

"Eh, okay..." she shrugged, and clutched the ratty hoodlum's hand with some visible hesitation. 

Basso shook her hand, and Gwenevere's entire body wobbled from the unexpected motion. The boxman pulled away, an incredulous look finding his face. Just how out of touch was this girl? Even for a noble, this sort of behavior was...odd, to say the least. 

Maybe the kid's a touch moonstruck, he reasoned with a smirk. 

"Eh, anyway...great job kid!" he praised, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a nod. "You've shown us what you've got, and I approve! Stick with Garrett and me, and you'll be a master in no time!" 

Gwenevere felt herself blush at the older man's gushing praise. Had she really done that well? Garrett certainly hadn't thought so.

"Thank you..." she peeped. Basso chuckled to himself, before looking around expectantly.

"You're a miracle worker Garrett!" he proclaimed, still laughing. But his joy receded, when he realized that his comrade was indeed, not there. 

"Garrett?" Basso looked around, growing tense. Upon receiving no response yet again, the boxman's gleeful disposition shifted to slightly agitated.

"Damn it, sodding taffer...if you just did me like I think ya did..." he cursed, stomping past a very concerned Gwenevere, and poked his head around the corner into the dingy alleyway.

"Garrett!" he bellowed. But his only response was a few odd stares from the three vagrants huddled around a makeshift fire pit. Basso growled under his breath. 

"Damn it..." Turning back to Gwenevere, he exhaled a long sigh, trying to vent his frustration.

"Is...is something wrong?" she asked softly. Basso began to chuckle again at her innocent question.

"Is something wrong, she asks...is something wrong..." he echoed in a strained, singsong voice. He then sighed hard, and looked up at the flustered redhead. "Did Garrett come here with you?" Gwenevere shook her head.

"N-no Mister Ba--"

"Just...Basso. No one's called me 'Mister' for who knows how long. It feels weird, ya know?" he smiled, appreciating the unexpected courtesy regardless of his embarrassed correction. 

"Oh, ok. Basso," Gwenevere repeated, making a mental note of her new acquaintances preferred moniker.

"So, he just left ya hanging huh?" Basso crossed his arms, still smirking to hide his rage.

"Oh, it's ok! I don't mind. Garrett doesn't seem to like me very much," Gwenevere mused sheepishly. Basso lit up again with yet another flabbergasted expression. 

"Doesn't like--" he shook his head. Did his mate honestly think that was any sort of excuse?!

Did Garrett honestly think that he could just walk away from their arrangement? Did he think it was fine to just leave this wanted runaway unattended? Basso released a flustered groan. Of course he taffing did. He was Garrett, after all. 

"Yeah," Gwenevere frowned. "He called me...hopeless..." 

"Aww, did he now?" Basso waddled over to the girl and clasped a heavy arm around her quaking shoulders. When she looked up questioningly at the gesture of friendship, the boxman grinned down at her. 

"Basso?"

"You know what kid?" Basso began, sticking out a finger and tapping her little nose. "I'm gonna go and have a talk with him right now." 

Gwenevere stared cross-eyed at the stubby digit, before Basso released his grip on her. He walked over to his desk, took out a small matchbox, and proceeded to jot something down upon it. The girl watched him with burgeoning intrigue, before the older man whistled for his magpie pet. Jenivere cawed, before responding to her master's call. 

"Here sweetheart. Go on and take this to Garrett," Basso crooned, stroking the bird's glossy black feathers. The magpie pecked at the message once, before taking the matchbox up in her tiny talons and flying off with it. Gwenevere watched Jenivere glide against the ivory moon, before turning back to Basso with wide eyes.

"Wow! She really listens to you," the girl marveled. 

"At least this Jenivere does," Basso chuckled, reclining back in his desk chair.

"Huh? What does that mean?" Gwenevere asked. The boxman sighed wistfully, before pulling his hat down over his eyes.

"It's a long story, kiddo. Maybe I'll tell it to ya someday..." he groaned, scratching his bulging stomach. "For now, let's just wait fer Ol' Garrett ta get my message, shall we?"


	5. The Favor

Garrett was just getting ready to turn in, when the sound of feathers flapping caught his attention. He waltzed over to the window of the clocktower, to find a small magpie waiting for him.

"Jenivere?" Garrett raised an eyebrow. What could Basso possibly want at this hour? 

The bird craned her tiny head up at the thief, before dropping a small red matchbox into his outstretched hand. Garrett gingerly turned the container over, and examined the crude message:

Garrett,  
I need to speak to you at once. It's about the girl.  
Come to the Crippled Burrick immediately.  
PS: THAT MEANS TONIGHT!

Garrett ground his teeth, and tossed the matchbox into the far corner the tower. Jenivere cawed again, content with her completed task, before soaring off into the chilly night. The thief grunted, as he struggled to redress. The girl again. She WAS proving to be more trouble than she was worth, as he had first suspected.

"I should have known better," Garrett muttered, as he tugged his dark cowl up over his head of messy brown hair. "No one in my line of work ever gets handed a heavy sack of coin without a huge catch..."

***

Basso, was by no means a timid man. He'd seen his fair share of danger, been tortured by the Hammerites. Looked his worst nightmares dead in the eyes. Yet, beneath the unfeeling coldness of that bitter night sky, the boxman was rendered frozen by the harrowing gaze of a mortal man. 

"Alright Basso, this better be important," Garrett sneered, as he leaned against the back wall of the tavern, arms crossed. His blasé response to the situation, thawed Basso's uncertainty like a searing flame. Balling his fingers into a tight fist, the boxman got straight to the point.

"What the hell were you thinkin', leaving Gwenevere alone in the middle of town like that?!" he demanded. 

Garrett stared into his mate's enraged expression, and blinked. Basso had always been one of the least threatening people he'd ever met. It was almost funny when he got this worked up, or otherwise attempted to threaten the reclusive god-slayer.

Almost. 

"Why do you care?" the thief snorted. "Afraid the little princess is gonna scuff a nail? You paid me to train her, not to put her on a leash and take her with me wherever I go!"

"That, is exactly what I paid you for, Garrett!" Basso snapped. Garrett's smug disposition grew rigid. 

"Basso, I really, really hope you're joking right now..."

But as the boxman continued to glower up at Garrett with that infuriated, intense expression, the thief grew from unsure, to uneasy. The hooded man lowered his gaze for a few contemplative moments. When Garrett raised his head again, the wild embers of his perverse right eye began to bore deeply into Basso's soul.

"No," he growled, in a voice reminiscent of an icy whisper. Basso took a deep breath, exhaled rather loudly, then held out his hand.

"Right then. Give me back my money."

"This was your mistake. It's mine now," Garrett straightened his posture. "Besides, I've held up my end of the bargain. I'm training her. Just because I won't let her follow me home, doesn't mean I've gone back on our deal."

"That's what I thought you'd say," Basso managed a weak chorale, shaking his head. Thinking he had won, the thief started away, a simple smile donning his worn face. But then, the boxman spoke up again. "That's why I took the liberty of making this easier on you. Gwenevere! You can come on out now, sweetheart!" 

At the mention of that name, Garrett stopped stiff in his tracks and spun around. The doll-eyed girl stepped out from behind a stack of potato crates, her expression mild and unsure. The thief took one look at her, before glowering back at Basso, brows furrowed. 

"You have her spying on me now?!" he hissed. 

"Not spying...just, listening in," Basso corrected. He nodded at Gwenevere, grinning as her emerald eyes locked upon the irate moonlighter. When Garrett stared back, she abruptly dropped her fascinated gaze, and began shuffling her feet. 

"I'm not playing along this time, Basso. First it was the McFarly kid. You told me he had what it took--came from a crime family in Black Alley and everything. He ended up facedown in the quay before the end of the month. Then there was Patricia--Heartless Perry's precious little ilk. She's serving six years for the stunt she pulled. And don't get me started on Hugo Penadink..."

"Ya know, Perry still blames me for what happened. Said I shoulda known better than ta trust you with his kid."

"So what's he intend to do about it? It isn't exactly my fault that she's an idiot," Garrett remarked apathetically, reaching for his pipe. 

"True," Basso nodded. "That don't help me sleep better none though. The way Perry sees it, either we spring his baby, or he takes out the trash."

Garrett's expression shifted little, only in response to the thin wafts of smoke--rather than his scruffy associate's concerns--as it began to twine its way into the chilly midnight air. 

"And you're taking his threats seriously?" the thief chided through puffs, "Threats from Heartless Perry? The lout who spilled his guts because some inexpensive thugs held a knife to his throat? What the hell is he gonna do?"

"Eh, guess yer right," Basso shrugged, feeling foolish. 

"Besides, that whole incident was three years ago, Basso. If Perry hasn't acted halfway through his little rugrat's sentence, he's not going to."

"Yeah, I suppose. I just still feel plum rotten about the whole thing. I mean, the kid was only fifteen."

"Then she should have known better than to try and break into the sheriff's home without help," Garrett retorted callously, before snuffing out his pipe. The entire day had been a burden unto his exhausted mind, and he didn't feel much like smoking after all.

"Maybe so, maybe so," the boxman sighed hard. He watched as the thief cleaned and tucked away his pipe, before speaking again. "So what's the deal with you and this new fish?"

"What do mean?" Garrett inquired, his tone revealing just how agitated and bored he actually was. 

"Well, what I mean is, you don't seem to be giving her much of a fair chance to show what she can do."

"That's because I've already seen it, Basso," Garrett replied with a sneer. "I've seen her nearly get herself caught twice in the span of one night. Even Perry's kid wasn't that careless..."

"What the hell do you expect?!" Basso countered. "She's a noble, Garrett! I think the fact that she can fetch me that medal without being caught shows promise."

"I think you and I have two completely different definitions of the word 'caught', my friend..." the thief jabbed, turning his gaze up to meet the celestial splendor of the pearly moon. 

"Aww, come on Garrett, have a heart!" Basso urged. "The poor kid says you don't seem to like her very much."

"Well, she's right," Garrett scoffed coldly. 

"But why?!" Gwenevere blurted. "Why don't you like me Garrett?" 

Both men turned away from their conversation and stared at her, the thief's cloak making a whip-like crack as it slapped against his leather outfit. Garrett took an intimidating step between his old friend, and the girl. The spoiled little rich kid, who had absolutely no business dwelling in his domain.

"Why don't I like you?" he inquired, his tone neither loud nor sardonic. It was level, and dead serious. He took another step, and Basso's jaw dropped open as he gaped at the scene before him. This was NOT going to be pleasant.

"Garrett?" the boxman motioned for his old friend to stop, but the thief just walked right past him. 

Garrett was now standing less than a foot in front of Gwenevere, his shadow tinting her pale flesh. The girl's eyes were like two absinthe moons shimmering against the murky blackness of the criminal's silhouette. The look he held within his curious bi-colored stare and rugged features, caused Gwenevere to gulp. It was wholly apparent, that this man despised her. 

"Garrett!" Basso tried again. "Garrett, come on now! She's just a kid!" 

When he heard the protests from behind him, the thief leered over his shoulder. Garrett watched as Basso's determined expression melted into that of the broken, terrified man he'd once rescued from the bowels of Cragscleft, so many years ago. The hooded predator sneered.

"You called me here, and you knew how I'd react to this. If you were expecting a change of heart from me, you should have known better," he hissed.

Basso allowed his posture to sag. He put his hands up in resignation, and silently acquiesced for the thief to proceed. And Garrett, did just that. 

"The reason that I dislike you, is because I have always hated those with false objectives. This life is hard enough to get through, without having to deal with pretenders. Like yourself," the thief sneered.   
Gwenevere sputtered in cold hurt at his bitter words. This was the first time, in which any of his callous insults had been accurate. For although she was indeed no noble, she was very much pretending. Dreaming, aspiring with all of her ligneous being, to break away from that which had already been predetermined long ago before the written word. A part of her was boiling within, shark's teeth gnashing behind her soft lips where he could not see. But she remained still, staring into the thief's wild eyes with all the tenacity of a starved wolverine. 

Misidentifying her discomfort as fear, Basso once again attempted to speak.

"Even so, Garrett--don't go scarin' the poor girl!"

"I don't like the thought of spending my time with a Simmons, Basso. I'm a very wanted man, you know. I don't need this kind of trouble."

"But Garrett. I'm not a Simmons any--" the girl interrupted, before the boxman could offer his retort.

"--shut it," the moonlighter snapped. Turning back to Basso, he waited for a proper response.

"Look, mate. You agreed to the terms. You assured me that there'd be no more bellyaching, if Gwenevere passed her little test--and she did!"

"Thought you'd know better than to trust a thief, Basso," Garrett chided coolly.

"Now don't you be pullin' any of that tiff-taff on ME, Garrett! Ima thief too, ya know!" Basso puffed up his chest in a rather comical display.

"Uh-huh. When's the last time you've actually been out in the field?" Garrett crossed his arms.

"Hey, I'm perfectly content to be an informant, thank ya very much. That's not exactly a walk in the park, ya know?" Basso remarked defensively.

Garrett shook his head, and turned back to look at Gwenevere. 

"Look, Gladis. You can stop playing at that. Deny your connections all you want, but I know your type. Every so often, an arrogant, little hand-fed brat gets it in their head, for one selfish reason or another, that their perfect life is just a little too perfect. Or more likely, not perfect enough. So they run away from it all. They try and see what it would be like to be a 'normal' and 'hard-working' person for once," he spoke with visceral contempt, and his right eye continued to blaze. 

"Is...is that what you think?" Gwenevere raised an eyebrow. Garrett ignored her quandary, and continued to lecture her.

"But what you don't realize, is that where you came from, has marked you. It's already part of you. It's in you. It's all you know. And sooner or later, because of this, you'll return to it. You can no sooner stop being a spoiled brat, than I can stop being what I am. A master thief. A real, thief."

"But...Basso said that you haven't been taking it all too seriously lately. Being a thief, I mean," Gwenevere corrected. Slowly, Garrett turned his pensive gaze onto his old associate. 

"How much did you tell her?" he demanded, in a voice far too calm to be genuine. Basso tensed. Eyes wide, he took a rigid step backwards.

"Uhhhhh....Well!" he chuckled in false contentment, slapping his hands together. "It looks like you two are gonna go ahead and get everything worked out between the both of you, so..." he shoved his hands into his coat pockets, as he began to creep away. "I'm gonna go and--"

Garrett was no gambler; he considered the act a waste of valuable gold. But his astute sleight of hand, would have given even veteran card sharps a run for their money. Unnoticed by both his mate and the girl, the thief narrowed his eyes, and sent an odd black disk whizzing silently past Basso. It came to rest two feet in front of him, and within those next unassuming steps, became quite noticeable for what it truly was. The boxman gasped in surprise, and attempted to leap back. But it was too late. Instead, he turned to face his hooded associate with a most perturbed expression.

"Pretty neat, aren't they?" Garrett crowed. "I picked em' up from a shop in Dayport just a week ago. Apparently, they're a new invention."

Basso grunted and muttered under his breath, as he attempted to dislodge his boots from the sticky black goo that now held them fast.

"What is this crap anyhow?" he cursed.

"It's a tar mine, if you really must know," Garrett snorted. "They send out a puddle of sticky crude, which incapacitates any idiot too inattentive to notice it."

"Taffing self-satisfied ratbag..." the frustrated pauper grumbled. 

Gwenevere covered her lips with her hands, stifling a giggle. She knew that it was quite impolite, but the man just looked so silly attempting to dislodge his feet from their goopy predicament. His insult hadn't been half-bad, either. But Garrett must have heard her, because he shot her a threatening glare which outright massacred her delight. Then, he turned back to Basso.

"Don't get your bollocks in a knot, Basso," Garrett groused. "It's only a temporary predicament for you."

"Well ain't that just hunky dory?" the bearded criminal coughed, presenting his chubby middle finger. Garrett just smirked.

"Thanks, but you're really not my type," the thief grinned. "Now, since you don't seem to be in any hurry, why don't you spill the beans? How much did you tell Gracie?"

"For the last bloody time, Garrett--her name's Gwenevere!" Basso hollered, feeling as his left foot slipped free of its boot. "And why the taff do you care what I told her? It ain't as though she wouldn't have noticed anyhow..."

"What?" Garrett's eyes narrowed. 

"Aw, taff...now how the hell am I supposed to," Basso ignored the thief, instead trying to stretch his freed foot across to a clean portion of the alleyway. He nearly lost his balance in the process, and Gwenevere's face grew red with compressed laughter. But again, it didn't last.

Her expression contorted with a jolt, as Garrett rushed towards Basso, and grabbed up the middle-aged man by the collar. She felt her protective instincts boil and bubble within the darkest recesses of her soul, yet by some fantastic stroke of fortitude, the strange young woman managed to hold back her instinctual rage. She watched the situation through the cold dead stare of a porcelain doll, as the thief tightened his grip. 

"I'm only gonna ask you one more time: How much did you tell the girl?" Garrett growled. 

Basso gulped, his eyes darting back and forth madly as he scanned the alley for any possible plan of retreat. But it quickly became apparent, that an escape wasn't about to happen. With a dull groan, Basso begrudgingly opened his mouth to comply.

"I told her everything, mate. I told her about who you are--or rather, who you were--before the events of last year..."

"And what about last year?" Garrett's daunting gaze intensified. "Did you tell her about that too?"

Again, Basso hesitated. Smacking his lips together a few times, the boxman sighed. 

"I think that goes without saying," he admitted in a sullen tone. 

The thief ground his teeth, releasing Basso before turning away violently. The boxman straightened his collar, feeling as the sludgy brew gluing him in place began to dissolve. Garrett remained silent, brooding in the far corner of the alleyway as Basso put his boot back on. Dusting himself off a bit, the shady man watched his friend for a few moments with a sympathetic face. Then, he made the mistake of approaching--and worse still--touching, the recluse's shoulder. 

"Garrett..."

Garrett snapped to attentiveness, recoiling from Basso, as though the boxman had just touched him with a white-hot brand. The seething eyes of a persecuted predator leered vehemently into those of a concerned friend. Then, like any cornered beast, he lashed out. 

"Don't taffing touch me!"

"Garrett. I know it hurts...I know this loss has changed you, changed how you see the world, and how you operate in it. But believe me, mate--I know how you feel."

The thief's eyes grew maniacal with visceral scorn. He sunk further into the blackness, his posture hunched like that of a deranged Pagan. His expression in that moment was very Pagan as well: Wild eyes, twisted features. Hidden agony concealed deep behind a layer of bitter retraction, and forsaken conviction. 

"You...have no idea what I've been through," he snarled, "and don't you DARE say otherwise!"

"Garrett, the girl's gonna be working in close proximity with us from now on!" the boxman explained, spreading his arms wide. "Don't you think she has the right to know why her teacher's been acting like such an arse to her?!"

"NO!!" Garrett bellowed like a rabid hound. "We agreed that I'd train her for you. That doesn't mean I trust her. And that sure as hell doesn't give YOU the right to blather on about MY past!"

"Stop it!" Gwenevere's shrill call pierced the night like a shooting star. "Why are you being so mean to Basso? He's your friend, Garrett! Can't you see that he's just trying to help you?!"

The moment those protective words left her mouth, the girl immediately regretted them. Not because she did not wish to aid Basso, but rather, the full brunt of the thief's wrath had been re-directed to her. Garrett slowly turned, and locked his eyes into hers. Gwenevere gulped, backing away from him until she could feel the cold brick wall against her back. As he shuffled towards her with slow, agonizing steps, Gwenevere felt beads of sweat begin to form atop her brow. Yet for all of his imposing mannerisms and fearsome stance, only two words left the thief's thin lips when he finally reached her. 

"Get going."

"W-what?" Gwenevere stammered, pressing her hands against the wall behind her. Garrett leaned over her, and sneered.

"Go home. You're way out of your element down here in the slums. If you want to live, start running."

"Are you...threatening me?" Gwenevere narrowed her eyes. 

"No. I'm giving you a warning. I don't know how long you've been living down here, but I can tell you this: So far, you've been fortunate. But the City is a dangerous place for a young girl..." 

There was a chilling hint of intimacy interwoven around his last sentence with phantom-like threads. Something very real and painful. Gwenevere stared harder into his eyes, trying so desperately to find the hidden meaning behind them. But she was unsuccessful. 

"I don't really have a choice. I've told you that," she muttered.

"Of course you do," the thief scoffed. "You're just being stubborn and prissy about it. So just go home already. You don't belong here."

"I could, if you'd just give me a chance!" she argued passionately, clasping her fists to her heart. Garrett pulled away from her, and scowled. 

"Chance?! To do what? Prove to me what I already know? You're just like every other noble, Genna..."

Gwenevere rolled her eyes. She'd given up on correcting him by this point.

"Oh yeah? And what does that mean?" she snipped.

"You can't do anything without help," Garrett remarked with a satisfied grin. "If it weren't for Basso, I wouldn't even be here talking to you. Without Basso and I, you wouldn't even know where to begin as a thief."

"Excuse me, but where do get off on telling me--"

"--do you honestly think you could ever be even half as skilled as I am? Keep dreaming. You're nothing but a mediocre, self-absorbed little--"

"--I HAVE STOLEN BEFORE!" the young woman roared, startling both men. She fumed, her body rising and falling with every overheated breath she took. Even her long red hair appeared to be splayed out like the fur of an angry cat. 

"What?" Basso beamed, his face suddenly jovial again. One might even say, proud. "Well why didn't ya mention this to me sooner, kiddo?" 

Gwenevere turned away, holding her hands behind her back as she shyly began to shuffle her feet. Before she could explain, Garrett took over. 

"Because she's full of shit, that's why," he spat. "Don't listen to her for a second, Basso. She's making the entire thing up. The girl's about as light on her feet as a charging rhinoceros."

"That's not true!" the girl shrieked in outrage, her mane going poofy again "If you would just shut your mouth and open your taffin' ears for one second, then maybe you'd understand that there's more to me than where I came from!" Gwenevere cursed, full of fire. 

Basso gawked at her furious display, eyes wide. Garrett rolled his with a scoff, his arms crossed. When she was sure that both men where listening to her, Gwenevere continued. 

"I stole from my parents, alright? It's the only thing I ever did to rebel against them."

"Well, besides running way," Garrett chided. Gwenevere glared up at him, biting her bottom lip.

"Why did you steal from them?" Basso spoke up. Gwenevere released a deep sigh.

"I can't tell you that. You'd both laugh in my face," she looked up, meeting Garrett's gaze with an extremely nasty glare. "Especially YOU..." 

The thief was unsure how to respond to Gwenevere's sudden sharp change in attitude, so he continued to ignore her. As far as he was concerned, she was just an entitled young pup blowing off steam. 

"Aww, come on now, kid," the boxman coaxed. "I'd never do such a thing!"

"I believe you, Basso," the girl answered in a demure tone. "But, all the same, it would probably be safer for everyone if I didn't tell you..."

"Sounds bad. Is that why you say you can't go back?" Basso asked.

"Yes...I got caught."

"That doesn't surprise me," Garrett smirked.

"Garrett! Honestly!" Basso chastised. He was starting to take a shining to the girl. 

As Garrett had not-so-subtly put it, she was indeed out of her element down here, and most certainly green. But she was also scrappier than most, and her exuberance and determination were equally strong. Despite the way Garrett kept prattling on about it, so far, this girl was nothing like the uppercrust. She was very much her own woman, and Basso appreciated that. 

Then, Garrett asked the fateful question.

"What did you steal?" 

Gwenevere's body softened as she worked to calm herself. Garrett watched as her feathered hair fell back smooth against her head and shoulders, the girl's entire demeanor growing gentle again. 

"One very rare jewel. Monetary wise, it was about enough to feed a hundred people for a year," she chuckled, although the memory of her failure--and what it had ended up costing--was incredibly painful.

"Well, that was stupid of you," the thief insulted bluntly. "A jewel like that would be locked up pretty tight. No wonder you got caught. That would have been a challenge for most actual thieves..."

Gwenevere barely heard his callous words, the horrific recollections of that miserable evening stinging at her heart. Basso cleared his throat, startling her. 

"Listen sweetheart. Garrett and I need to discuss something in private, okay?"

"We do?" the thief looked over his shoulder.

"Come on, it'll only take a minute!" Basso whispered through his teeth, before proceeding to usher Garrett back inside. 

For whatever reason, the thief allowed this. Perhaps he was just tired, or perhaps he didn't care anymore. But most likely, he just wanted to get the taff away from that incessant girl.

***

Garrett stroked Jenivere's glistening feathers, whilst the magpie pecked at the bit of stale bread in his hand. Basso was pacing again, as he often did when he had a lot to say, but was unsure how to go about it. He finally stopped, and began massaging his aching temples. 

"Do you want to know why I was so miffed earlier; about you leaving Gwenevere alone?"

"Would be nice," the thief groused.

"The guards Garrett, the guards! I don't care what she says about not being able to go back home. Personally, I think the dame's a bit on the naïve side. Pops has put out wanted posters, and if the guards see her--"

"--why are you doing this for her anyway?" Garrett intervened.

"Huh?" 

"Gabriella. Why are you helping her? The kid's a walking sack of dosh, and you're more concerned with getting her on her feet down here, than getting your hands on the reward money. Sometimes, I honestly have no idea what's the matter with you, Basso."

Basso stared wide-eyed at his mate for what felt like hours, feeling a chill as the cold, vacant glare of the master thief dove into him. He shook his head, and plopped down at his desk. 

"You should hear yerself, ya know? Sure, I'll admit it--all that fine gold's mighty tempting. But, even if I was some sort of emotionally-challenged grump--"

"--watch it," Garrett warned. Basso put his feet up on the desk, scattering a few loose papers.

"My point is, doesn't it all just sound...er, I dunno, a bit fishy to you?"

"Does what sound fishy?"

"Well, judging from the wanted poster she showed me--"

"--she SHOWED you her own wanted poster?" Garrett gawked. "Geez, this girl's even dumber than I initially thought..."

"Shut yer yap and listen!" Basso griped. "Now, judgin' from that poster, it seems ta me that Simmons was being taffing purposefully vague."

"What do you mean?" Garrett raised an eyebrow. 

"Well, I mean think about it, Garrett," Basso leaned further back in his chair, placing his arms behind his head. "Nothing at all was even specified! Usually with these sorts of advertisements, the parents are very strict. They want to get their babies back in one piece, after all. But Lord Simmons didn't even bother to instruct potential rescuers to be gentle with the girl, or even that he wanted her brought back alive!"

"I guess that does seem a bit odd, yeah," Garrett looked up at the ceiling. 

"And about that reward yer coveting mate, the poster said it would be considered. Which means the gal's lofty pops could chose to swipe her back, and send her retriever away empty-handed if he wanted to."

Garrett exhaled a hot breath from his nostrils. As much as he disliked the notion, Basso had made some pretty good points. 

"So what do you think's going on, since you're the expert all of a sudden?" he groused.

Basso peeked out from beneath his top hat, and leaned forward. 

"What do I think?" he stood from the chair with a groan. "Well, call me suspicious, but I think that poor kid might be more of an object than a person to her old man. I got a pretty sinister vibe from her, when she was tellin' me about where she came from. I can't be sure what it is, but I can tell ya with no uncertainty, Garrett--something's amiss at the Simmons' family manor."

"Gee Basso. I never saw you as the fatherly type," Garrett joked.

"It isn't about that Garrett!" Basso snapped. "Call me a sap, but I just can't let that kid come to harm. She ain't safe out on her own, she's petrified at the prospect of goin' home. The only place she's ever gonna be comfortable, is with us. I'm sorry, but yer just gonna have to deal with that."

"Because she passed that test you gave her, albeit by the skin of her pearly teeth?" Garrett sneered. 

"Precisely!"

"And what about you? What are you getting out of all this? You want to sex her up or something?" 

The crude inquiry was so unexpected, that it caused the boxman to burst out laughing. 

"Well, well...never pegged you as the type for naughty gossip, Garrett. But sure, I'll bite. If given half the chance? Certainly. What about you?" 

"Are you joking?!" 

"What?! What's the matter with her?" Basso shrugged.

"She's a little young for me, first of all..."

"Ah, but they're taut and feisty when they're young!" the boxman winked. Garrett shot him a positively disgusted look.

"Forget it. I don't know why I even attempted to entertain your sick mind," the thief groused.

"Neither do I. Still, you should have seen the look on yer face!" Basso chuckled. Garrett shook his head, muttering something as he threw up his hands in the air, and proceeded to walk to the other end of the hovel. 

"So, if not another notch in your belt, what is she to you?" the thief eventually murmured. 

Basso sauntered over to the enigmatic moonlighter whom he'd known for over twenty years, and propped his elbows against the window ledge. Jenivere flew from Garrett's finger, and landed atop her owner's slouched shoulders. 

"Ya wanna know why I've been helpin' all these kids, do ya? It's because if not me, who's gonna give em' a chance?" he heaved a long, remorseful sigh, and began rubbing his beard as he looked over his shoulder at Garrett. "You ever hear of Fine-Fingered Curtis?"

"Yeah, I've heard of him," Garrett shrugged. "He was one of the best safecrackers to ever work this city."

"Right," Basso nodded. "Well, he's the guy who gave me my start. Sophie too. He noticed her flair for subtle infiltration, and how mean she was with a blade. He's the bloke who pointed her in the direction of Machinno Luazinni. That's how she became one of his Prowlers, way back when."

The thief forced himself to conceal his amazement. It was almost ridiculous to think that Basso the Boxman had been tutored by none other than Fine-Fingered Curtis, back in the days of his youth. Yet, even still, Basso had always been one hell of an ace with his lockpicks. So, Garrett resigned himself to believe it.

"Well, good for you and your sister and everything, but what's this got to do with the girl?" he asked in a callous tone.

Basso sighed, straightened his posture, and turned to face his old friend. He rubbed his weary head, eyes tired and tragic. His face revealed far more pain and loss then most men his age. 

"Look, Garrett. Neither of us are the young men we used to be anymore. What we do, it ain't like most other jobs. Yer lovers hate it, yer family don't support ya--unless they happen to be in the business too, that is. The guards wanna skewer you at any given opportunity--"

"--just get to the point," Garrett snapped.

"My point is, that we taffers gotta stick together. If thieves like us are gonna survive in this town, then we're gonna need all the help we can get."

"Speak for yourself," Garrett snorted. "I don't need any help Basso. I never have."

"Would yer younger self agree with you? Could ya say that to Artemus, if ya saw him again?"

Garrett turned away, his blood growing frigid as it always did at any mention of the Keepers. Especially his late mentor, Artemus. Only Basso and his younger sister had ever been made privy to the secret order, and only because back in the rancorous and bitter days of his youth, Garrett hadn't given two cents about those ponderous sentinels and their secret society. Back then, it was almost like a game; a way of irking them from the shadows by revealing their identities. Making them common to those who had no idea of the wondrous power and knowledge these hooded men and women actually held. 

"Artemus is dead. And kids make stupid mistakes," the thief muttered coldly, but with a dubious enough pitch to convince the boxman that his words weren't entirely genuine. Basso grinned.

"Look, I'm not askin' you to marry her. I just want you to keep an eye on the gal, that's all."

"You mean, babysit that squealing little sow out there?" the thief hissed. Basso's brows furrowed.

"She's a sweet kid, Garrett. Or is your heart just too cold to see that?"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that too many sweets are bad for you, Basso?" Garrett grumbled. "Personally, I prefer apples. Crunchy, juicy apples..."

As those last three words exited his mouth, Garrett, actually smiled. Basso smiled back, and proceeded to shake his head with a light chuckle. 

"Ah, Garrett...it's always apples with you, isn't it?" he teased.

There was a moment of silence between the two men, and an air of genuine comradery. Garrett looked away from Basso's stupid grin, and straightened his hood. It was always cold in the basement during the later months, even with a roaring fire going. 

"Listen, Basso. Have you considered getting her to draw you up a map of her old place?" the thief asked in a casual tone. The boxman's eyes glimmered like two coins amidst the dreary candlelight. His mouth agape, Basso snapped his fingers. 

"Well now! I can see why that might be useful. Gosh, I'd never even considered that!" he marveled. 

"Of course you haven't..."

"But, why me? Yer the one who'll be training her and all," Basso raised an eyebrow.

"Something tells me, asking won't get me anywhere," Garrett remarked sarcastically. "Glenda and I don't exactly get along."

"Might help if you could remember her name..." Basso stressed. 

"Look, since you two are already so chummy, I think you should just do it."

"Well okay," the boxman shrugged again. "But yer the one who'll be spendin' the most time with the girl. Might help to be on good terms with her before she moves into the clocktower with you..."

Upon receipt of that sentence, Garrett's left pupil contracted. His right eye veered outward, glowering into Basso before the thief had managed to fully turn his head. 

"Better think again..." he warned. "There is no way in hell that she's gonna--"

Basso silenced him forthwith, holding up his hand and clearing his throat with purposeful volume. 

"Look, if we want to get that map, then we need to be serious about keepin' Gwennie outta trouble. We need to keep her away from her folks and the bluecoats at all times, Garrett. And I think, it stands to reason that the best way to do that, is to keep the gal in close proximity."

"Basso, that tower is my sanctum! I don't share my sanctum--with anyone! You've never even been up there!"

"Garrett, if they nab her, you ain't gettin' that map," the boxman cleverly countered. "And I wonder what would happen then, seeing as the girl's seen your face, hmmm? Maybe I'm wrong, but I'd imagine that could be a problem for ya..."

The thief's eyes narrowed in response to Basso's smug grin.

"Why can't she just stay here with you?"

"Because for one thing, the upstairs barkeep would have my arse on a plate. For another, the tavern's a pretty crowded location. And lots of bluecoats come around here ta boot! Fact is, the kid just wouldn't be safe here."

"And what makes you think she'll be safe with me?" Garrett sneered, trying to sound sinister. But Basso knew him better than that.

"Ah, come of it. I know how you get around the ladies--especially the cute ones. You'll keep as far away from her as humanly possible," the boxman laughed. "Taff, you'll probably make her sleep in the corner like a dog!"

"I could also just conk her on the head, and deliver her back to Simmons for the reward myself," Garrett threatened. "What's to stop me from doing that?"

Basso sighed, and rubbed his nose. 

"Now, I know you're not stupid, Garrett," he coughed. "If Simmons or the bluecoats see you, you'll be arrested on sight. And you can forget about that reward--if there even IS one..."

The thief ground his teeth, eyes darting back down to the dirt floor as he brooded. His bluff had failed, and he was quickly running out of ideas. Basso watched his friend for several seconds more, before trotting over and slapping Garrett across the back. 

"Look mate. It's just until one of us gets the map. Then, I promise we'll find a place for her to stay. I know you need yer privacy, and I wouldn't ask this much of you normally."

Garrett glanced up at him, the sparsest hints of a nostalgic smirk finding his thin lips.

"You always have been a real softie, you know that Basso?" he mused.

"And yet, protest and moan as you might, ya always end up helpin' me out with my little personal conquests," the boxman smiled. "Don't think for a second that I don't appreciate it, mate."

Garrett abruptly looked away, as the memories of years past began to parade across his mind in a torturous procession. Shades and screams, laughter shared amongst those now long dead. Many of whom he'd watched die. The reserved moonlighter shuddered, and squeezed his eyes shut. When he'd regained enough composure to re-open them, all nostalgia and warmth had vanished. What remained, was the visage of bitterness, and cold calculation.

"I haven't exactly said yes yet," he replied in a cynical tone. Basso's smile crumbled, and he released another frustrated sigh from his nostrils.

Could he BE any more stubborn and aloof? the overweight criminal thought. 

"Alright, alright. Then do it as a favor," Basso pleaded, his voice having gone strangely solemn. It was enough to cause Garrett to take notice. "The girl really needs our help. Furthermore, I see promise in her. My gut tells me that she's gonna do great things one day. For both of us." 

Garrett held his breath, and then groaned. For whatever inexplicable reason, he'd never been able to say no to his oldest friend--even when he'd really needed to. 

"Alright Basso. I'll keep her out of trouble." 

Garrett nearly gagged, as the boxman charged into him. Thick arms found and squeezed his gaunt frame, as Basso embraced his mate. Garrett wheezed, his eyes wide as Basso proceeded to lift him a few inches off the ground. 

"Thanks mate! I won't forget this!" he bellowed.

Once he felt his boots touch the ground again, the thief broke away from the boxman's overzealous hug, straightening his hood with a foul frown. 

"You better not. After all, you owe me now..." 

With that, the master thief turned on his heel, and proceeded out the door. No doubt that Giselle, was waiting for him. Basso chuckled as he watched the flustered rogue leave the establishment, a mischievous grin contorting itself across his scruffy face. 

"I wouldn't have it any other way, my friend."


	6. The Change

It was the first time Gwenevere had ever walked these streets with another soul, yet she'd seldom felt so alone. The man beside her clearly did not believe in decorum, because as they made their way through those chilly, derelict alleyways, Garrett made no attempt to hide his displeasure. 

Every so often, Gwenevere would hear him release a loud huff, or mutter something about Basso under his breath. A few times, she'd been brave enough to inquire--but her friendly investigations were always met with a horribly daunting glare. 

Gwenevere huffed herself, gazing up at the sea of chimney smoke dancing above her. The moon was her only source of illumination, as she continued to trail the reserved hoodlum further into the unknown blackness. She chanced a look at her reflection within a murky puddle of half-frozen, stagnant water, and noticed that the celestial body seemed to be trembling as much as she was. 

Almost. 

How she wished the man would at least acknowledge her as more than some unwanted tag. After all, she was to be his house guest for at least the time being. And from what Gwenevere had observed thus far from the rancorous criminal, that arrangement was doomed to be awkward, at best. 

"So...what street do you live on anyway?" she tried her best to smile, before adding with a quick little giggle, "it feels like we've been walking forever."

"It's only been ten minutes," Garrett groused. "Don't tell me your fancy shoes are hurting your feet already?"

Craning her head to the side, Gwenevere lifted her leg and began examining one of her fur-lined slippers.

"Oh no," she remarked, hoping to alleviate his misidentified concern, "no, these are actually quite comfortable."

Well la-di-da... the thief shook his head with a loud snort, neither slowing nor ceasing his pace. 

He rolled his eyes when not thirty seconds later, his unwanted trainee piped up again. Garrett wondered if they indeed manufactured muzzles for girls like her. If so, he sincerely planned on obtaining one.

"I was just wondering, because we seem to be heading towards the center of town," Gwenevere added.

"Excellent observation," the thief quipped in a snide tone, "you sure are one clever girl."

"Not particularly," Gwenevere blushed, missing the obvious sarcasm in Garrett's words, "but gee, thanks!"

"Uh-huh..." the thief muttered to himself. 

"So, where DO you live? There aren't any houses in the center of Stonemarket, ya know? That's why I asked. It's all just stores, and street vendors mostly. But there's also a potion shop, and a few small bakeries too," the girl leaned forward, eyeing him cautiously, "Say, you don't happen to live in one of those bakeries, now do ya?"

Garrett finally stopped walking, and glared down at her.

"Do I look like the sort of guy who bakes bread?"

"Well, no..." Gwenevere shuffled her feet. "I just supposed there would be no harm in asking..."

"Idiot," Garrett grumbled, before resuming his pace. Gwenevere shrugged off his latest insult, and ran forward to catch up with him.

"So, where DO you live?" she asked again, breathless with excitement. 

"If I didn't answer you the first time, what makes you think I've changed my mind?" the hooded man snapped. 

"Well, it's been a few seconds at least anyway," the girl grinned. Garrett contained another sigh behind his taut lips, coming to a halt. 

"We're here."

Gwenevere stared up at him, watching with burgeoning interest as the thief pointed his finger up towards the one structure in all of Stonemarket that the naïve girl had dismissed as his possible abode. Her green eyes widened, her mouth flopping open in abject wonder as she beheld the majestic structure. The spire of the tower seemingly pierced the moon, as ravens and smoke encircled it like a living nocturnal crown. The girl tightened her grasp upon her navy blue cloak, as if trying to keep her spellbound heart from leaping straight out of her chest. 

"Wow..." she gaped, her mouth so wide that Garrett could have peered down her throat if he'd desired. "You live there?!"

"Yes," he grumbled, still incredibly uncomfortable with her being privy to that delicate information. 

Garrett had known random passersbys better than he knew this girl--and he'd had a much better rapport with them to boot. In all honesty, neither himself--nor that jolly drunk pal of his--were entirely aware of just what this strange kid was capable of. What her true nature was like, or why she had chosen to become a thief--beyond snubbing her obviously conventional parents. 

A more trusting individual might have laughed at his paranoia. After all, how could the rogue possibly suspect such a foolish child of foul play? Even if she wanted to be, Gwenevere was far too clumsy and small to be any sort of threat to him. But an unfortunate--and frankly, horrifying--event nearly two decades ago, had taught Garrett two very important lessons: Never trust a noble, and never trust a pretty face. 

Even still, the moonlighter had a difficult time picturing her pulling a knife on him. But he'd be keeping a constant eye on her, just to be sure. 

"So, shall we?" Gwenevere's voice rang like a church bell through the dreary streets, causing Garrett to tense.

"Shall we what? And keep your bloody voice down!" he hissed.

"Oh, sorry..." she reached for a strand of her lavish red hair again, with the full intention of chewing on it. It was a nervous tick of hers, and one which disgusted the thief most thoroughly. "I was just wondering if I should start climbing?"

The way his face revolted, gave the girl her answer.

"You want to climb up the side of the clocktower?" he asked in a cynical voice, raising an eyebrow at her. "Well, I suppose that's one surefire way to get yourself killed."

"B-but, I mean, isn't that how YOU do it?" Gwenevere stammered.

"Tch, no. You'd get spotted by the city watch for sure pulling a stunt like that. You'd have to be a right taffing idiot to access the clocktower that way. The Hammerites built doors around the parameter for a reason."

"Oh..." Gwenevere looked down at her feet, shame coating her sullen posture. 

"I'll show you the simple entrance, Gigi. Come on," Garrett gestured for her to follow, then pointed at her busy mouth. "And drop it. You really shouldn't be chewing on your hair like that."

Gwenevere did as she was bade, spitting the damp tresses away from her teeth and lips. Then, she gleefully skipped down the street after a very frustrated Garrett. 

***

Chasing after Garrett by fleeting moonlight had been challenging enough. Now, betwixt a forgotten realm of dust and cobwebs, Gwenevere found herself positively lost. Uncertainly crept and teased at the corners of her confidence, as her eyes struggled to find her mentor amidst the blackness. It was fruitless; like  trying to locate a single drop of rain amidst a raging river. The thief, truly was the master of this place. A shade, wandering the gloomy and depressing confines of worlds long forgotten by most. She called out for him several times, but to no avail. 

It was within this stretch of their untoward acquaintanceship, that Gwenevere became all-too aware that Garrett was trying his best to be rid of her. To lose her within this sinister city of murky danger. Brushing a cobweb from her sanguine mane, the girl began to crawl on all fours through the remainder of the musty tunnel. She found it was much easier to get her bearings in a new situation, when she could feel the earth beneath her fingers. 

Thankfully, little deduction proved necessary, as the tunnel neither branched nor veered. Gwenevere yipped in discomfort as the top of her head bumped into something hard, and quite creaky. Rubbing her forehead with a miserable little groan, she pushed upward on the obstruction. It lifted with ease, revealing the inner workings of Garrett's secret domicile. 

In the time it had taken Gwenevere to find her way through dark and unfamiliar territory, the thief  had managed to get a rather healthy fire going within a large steel barrel. The girl stared from her place below the floor, mesmerized by the vibrant hues of amber and red as they crackled and danced. She watched as Garrett ran his hands over their luster, his face sullen, and his eyes dark. Almost as though, he'd already forgotten about her. 

Sensing that something was amiss, Garrett turned in the direction of the trap door. He blinked when he saw Gwenevere there, the wooden hatch propped up by her mop of messy red hair. She smiled, and crawled free from the passage, a sheepish expression donning her cherubic face. 

"Took you long enough," Garrett sneered, turning his attention back to the fire. Gwenevere began dusting herself off.

"Well, I might not have gotten lost down there, if you hadn't run off like that!" she snapped. 

"How do you get lost in twenty feet of direct passage?" Garrett smirked.

"That isn't the point!" the girl crossed her arms, after flicking a cobweb from her hair. "How can you call yourself any sort of teacher, when you don't even keep a close eye on your students?!"

The thief's brows furrowed at her uppity little attitude. Turning to face her, Garrett pointed a stiff, accusatory finger in Gwenevere's face.

"Stop right there," he growled. "First of all, you're not my student. Second of all, I'm not your teacher. I'm doing a job, and you just happen to be part of it."

"I see," the girl sneered. "So, just how many 'jobs' like me have you completed thus far, huh?"

"Seven. You're the eighth," Garrett replied coldly. 

"Oookaaay, why do you keep doing this then, if you hate it so much?"

"Typical of your kind to ask that," the thief belittled her. "I do it to get paid, princess. It keeps me in shape, and it's the easiest way to make good coin these days, thanks to 'Old Man Existentialist'..."

"Who?" Gwenevere gawked in utmost confusion. Garrett took notice of the fact that she hadn't denied being a princess. 

Also typical, he mused, and went back to rubbing his hands over the fire. 

"Basso," he grumbled.

"Basso?" Gwenevere repeated, beginning to wonder why someone like Basso still lived in the slums, if he had so much extra money. 

A part of her wanted to ask Garrett about it, but she quickly deduced that he wouldn't give her a straight answer. It was, after all, none of her business. However, the young woman decided internally that she would inquire about it to the boxman upon their next meeting. Basso was, after all, far less uptight than his hooded companion. 

"Yeah. But housing a snotty little whelp like you cost him extra. The others were all at least competent enough to have their own places..." Garrett demeaned. 

"Well," she cleared her throat with a delicate cough, "you didn't exactly give me much time to find a place." 

Garrett glared at her again.

"What?" he hissed, irked by the girl's near-constant disrespect towards him. Intimidated, Gwenevere felt her bold composure empty out of her shuddering body like blood. 

"W-what I mean is," she stammered, "I-I'm a runaway who's been living in the slums for less than a week..."

"Yeah? So where were you staying before Basso found you?"

"Beneath a bridge in Dayport," Gwenevere proclaimed, puffing out her chest. "And actually, I found him."

"Huh, I would have guessed a flophouse," the rogue grinned. "Course, they usually charge money, and I doubt you've successfully stolen any of that."

Gwenevere's eyes went wide in stark astonishment. 

"A flophouse!? Why, that doesn't sound safe at all! Wouldn't it just fall over?" 

Slowly, Garrett's eye began to twitch in reaction to the naïve girl's peculiar response. His jaw taut, the thief swallowed the lump of warm saliva within his throat as he gawked at her. After a few seconds of awkward stares and silence, he finally shook his head and uttered a mumbly, "forget about it..."

Gwenevere, did just that. 

It was quiet for a time. Garrett continued to warm his frigid body by the fire pit, while Gwenevere listened intently to the way the crackling flames echoed throughout the heart of the City's forsaken timekeeper. She wondered how long the massive structure had been standing; the girl's knowledge of anything beyond the gilded walls of her palace, sparse guesswork at best. Perhaps more than anything, she wondered why Garrett had chosen to live here. Flames reflected within her wild emerald eyes, as Gwenevere marveled upward at the long shadows cast against the now lifeless clockface. The mangled beams and motionless gears especially, served to create quite monstrous silhouettes. 

"Garrett?" Gwenevere finally decided to break the torment of silence. The thief, did not respond. 

"Garrett!" she tried again. This time, Garrett answered her with an annoyed grunt. Taking his crude acknowledgment as a sign of progress, she tried once again. 

"Hey! GARRETT!!" 

"WHAT?!" he snarled, whirling around to face her, his eyes ablaze. The girl gulped, recoiling from his furious outburst. 

"Umm...well I was just curious, is all..." she peeped.

"Of what? How long it takes to get a rise outta me?" the thief sneered.

"No," Gwenevere pouted. "I was just wondering about the other trainees. You know? The ones you helped before me?"

Garrett sighed hard, then stepped away from the fire pit to face her.

"Alright. First of all, I didn't 'help' anyone, okay? I was paid. Second of all, why the taff do you care?" 

"Well, I just kind of want to know what's going to be expected of me. I want to know what sort of things I'll be learning, so I can strive to do my best!" the girl proclaimed with a smile. 

Garrett rolled his eyes again. He realized that he'd been doing that almost constantly since meeting Gillian.

"I wouldn't worry about any of that. I don't expect anything out of you. You're nothing like the others..."

Gwenevere wilted, visibly hurt by his callous remark. But her demeanor perked up with ease, when another question entered her ever-curious mind.

"Well, that's okay. I'll still do my best out there!" her eyes seemed to glisten within the dim light of that forgotten place. "So, what were the others like?" 

"They were from the streets. Their parents were criminals. They'd leave a girl like you battered and bleeding in the gutter if given half the chance. Some of them, even had actual talent," Garrett growled. "Like I said; nothing like you..." 

"Aw, come on!" Gwenevere begged. "That doesn't tell me anything--be a sport, Garrett!"

"I'd rather not."

The girl began to pout again, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed. 

"Well then, what about your first trainee? What were they like? What made you decide to begin taking on apprentices in the first place?"

Garrett's body grew rigid, his eyes flashing like diamonds in the darkness. Whether this obnoxious brat knew it or not, she'd just asked a loaded question. One that the thief would sooner slit her throat than answer. 

"Thought Basso told you about that already..." he muttered in a reticent, dismal voice. 

"Well, he told me there was a girl involved, so I decided not to pry," Gwenevere cheeped in a cheerful tone which juxtaposed his own. "Sounded personal...romantic even!"

"It wasn't anything like that," Garrett snorted, noticeably disgusted by the very notion. Gwenevere craned her head to the side like a curious puppy.

"Oh? So what was it like then?" she asked. 

"I've told you before--you should mind your own business."

"Okay, fine. Be like that!" she fumed. "Let's move on. How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" 

"What? Housing ignorant little rich kids? As I told you before--this would be a first," Garrett sneered. 

"Oh come on. Don't be like that! You knew what I meant!" she encouraged. 

"And what if I don't?"

"Oh, you..." Gwenevere rolled her eyes. "What I mean is, how long have you been stealing stuff?" 

"I, 'steal stuff' to survive, Griselda," Garrett groused, clearly offended by how disrespectful she was being. "A man's gotta eat. I had rent to pay. Had equipment to purchase, so forth and so on," he trailed off nonchalantly. 

Gwenevere looked around, examining the inside of the immense and dusty clocktower again. She crooked a brilliant red eyebrow in utmost confusion. 

"But...you live here. Surely the City doesn't rent out the clocktower!" 

From her tone, Garrett wasn't sure if the girl was being sarcastic, or completely stupid. In his opinion however, it sounded much more like the latter. 

"Don't get cute," he scoffed dryly. 

"Was I? Whatever did I say that was so cute?" Gwenevere inquired. 

Garrett shook his head, and started back towards the fire pit. He wasn't going to enjoy this, and yet, he had to endure it. After all, he had done worse things as 'favors' for Basso, always with the reminder of an owed favor cajoling him from the back of his mind. A favor for a favor. It was about the only honor code people in his line of work had. At least in Garrett's bitter opinion. 

As the flames crackled and danced, devouring the sparse bits of charcoal and paper in their wake, Garrett began to wonder if he truly needed an extra favor. His instincts had only sharpened over the years, and he rarely required anyone's assistance anymore--even for maps or information these days. However, the bulging sack of silver at his belt, placated these nagging thoughts.

"Garr-ett!" Gwenevere cried out, once again pulling the rogue away from his personal thoughts. He had a sinking premonition, that this was going to be happening a lot. 

"What is it now?" Garrett groaned with utmost annoyance. "Isn't it past your bedtime or something?"

"So, what DO you do with all of your money?" Gwenevere asked, ignoring his question. 

"I thought I told you to mind your own business," the irate moonlighter groused. "Like, four times already..."

Gwenevere crossed her arms, beginning to pout again, her long red bangs dangling over the sides of her face. Another man might have found the entire display relatively cute, but Garrett had never cared for the self-entitled, prissy types. Girls in women's clothing, who believed that their looks would secure them whatever it was they fancied. Tramps who believed themselves akin to sirens and nymphs in relation to the alluring powers they held over most men within their domain. 

How he delighted in seeing the look on their pretty little faces, when these privileged ladies discovered that their so-called 'powers' were useless against the hooded shadow invading their boudoirs. Garrett's blackjack, had never been discriminatory. And neither, had he.

"Fine. Then I'm not going to tell you anything about me either!" the girl affirmed, turning up her tiny nose.

"Works for me. Keep your trap shut, and maybe you'll actually learn something from me. The sooner you learn how to steal correctly, the sooner I can have my tower back," Garrett countered. "We're not partners, and we're not friends. I don't give a rat's ass about you. Try to remember that."

Gwenevere frowned. She turned her head, the fire illuminating her ruby hair in a soft orange glow as she began to examine the surrounding area. Peering upward, the tower's core seemed to ascend forever. Only the sparse rays of moonlight filtering in through long-neglected cracks in the foundation served to prove otherwise.   
From what few first impressions the place gave, Gwenevere could tell that the tower was well-lived in. There was a filthy mattress practically thrown into the corner of the room, and several broken barrels and crates lying nearby. Crumbled up wrappers, and bent tin cans presumably used as food containers lay scattered about, some quite thick with dust. 

About the only part of the room that wasn't in a state of decay, was the bright area to her right. Illuminated by the gentle radiance of the moon, were several display cases, each housing rare and beautiful treasures. One in particular--an elegant yet simple bronze ring, caught Gwenevere's eye. She would never have even noticed such a mundane trinket, had it not been situated on its very own pedestal in the center of the thief's collection. The tactful and loving way such prizes had been arranged, caused the morose girl to smile. 

"You certainly take great pride in your work, regardless as to why you do it, Garrett," she complimented in a sincere tone. 

He didn't bother to answer her this time, so instead, the young woman began to quietly observe his every motion with a keen, and utmost interest. 

As she did so, more questions began to eke into the folds of her mind. Why would one as skilled and wise as this man choose to live in a dilapidated tower? Had something terrible happened to him, or had things always been this way? Although Garrett acted content within his realm, Gwenevere was certain that there was a very good reason as to why he seemed to treat all others with an aloof, and distanced contempt. 

His bi-colored eyes held a serious, almost fractured expression. The girl's own inquisitive green optics flashed in the darkness. Though it had been a very long time ago, she had observed such an expression once before. It was the visage of utmost suffering. Silent grimaces, and dead eyes struggling to keep ones darkest traumas chained and hidden. But naïve and unassuming as she was, Gwenevere knew such struggles always proved futile in the end. 

After all, master thief though he was, Garrett was still a mortal man. And mortal men, could not wrestle back their demons forever.


	7. Adaptation

As the hours waned on, Garrett chanced another peek at his new 'roommate'. Gwenevere had fallen asleep at the bend in the stairway, curled up on herself like a dazzling blue pill bug. Her breathing was shallow, long red hair falling down the sides of her smooth face like a waterfall of flocculent blood. Her thick eyelashes fluttered slightly, as she continued her personal sojourn through the land of dreams. 

The thief's haggard face shifted with bizarre intrigue. He had never seen anyone sleep that way before. He wondered how she could possibly be comfortable. Reluctantly, and having little else to do that evening, Garrett walked over to better observe this most precarious sleeping method of hers. He was--for whatever reason--beginning to grow curious about her. Much like Basso had pointed out, she was a mage, and magic was now such a rarity outside of organized factions and cults. As much as the thief refused to admit it, Gwenevere herself, was a rare treasure indeed. 

He crouched down beside her, the cold metal of his right eye taking in the lost princess before him. It mirrored her serene expression as she continued to dream, and an apathy colder than its glistening components began stirring within the vagabond's dismal heart. Garrett already knew, all too well; that treasures, could be very dangerous things. 

"Why are you here? For all of your incessant yapping earlier, you didn't really give me anything to go on. But then again, I never openly asked you, now did I?" the criminal murmured. 

The waning embers within the fire pit crepitated their last, before fizzling out into an insignificant puff of smoke. Garrett rubbed his hands together, as the air within that desolate tower began to grow frigid. Precious warmth left his mouth, as he continued to observe Gwenevere with a benumbed expression. 

Before him lay a girl, who'd for whatever reason, thrown herself off the precipice of disaster. 

That round, sweet little face of hers still retained its smile as she slept. Garrett wondered just how long it would take this city to thoroughly purge it from her face. This place was not for delicate, idealistic minds such as hers. It was not a place for enthusiastic nobles who dreamed of becoming thieves. If she indeed decided to stay, this brutal and disgusting world of his, would mold her accordingly. If it didn't outright kill her. 

"Do you even know that, I wonder?" Garrett continued to murmur to himself. "Is it really worth that much to you, to do what I do? To live the way I live?" 

It began to occur to him, that the reserved criminal still had no idea what 'it' actually was. Why Gwenevere wanted to become a thief so badly. It couldn't be for the money, as she'd willingly abandoned a fortune. Was this all a simple game to her? An act of paternal defiance? The thief ran his fingers around the base of the chipped railing. Any reason he could deduce, seemed farfetched at best. 

Even if she was an outright taffing moron, the girl couldn't be THAT stupid. 

"Then again..." Garrett mulled, running his eyes over her exposed outfit with an derisive smirk. 

The clothing she wore was beyond ostentatious. Under the confines of her lengthy cape, he'd never even noticed. A navy blue corset with silver trim around the breasts, and a very short skirt which barely covered her thighs. The sight of her exposed legs and pale flesh almost caused him to laugh aloud. For a noble's brat, this girl clearly had no sense of public decency.

"You look more like a harlot than a thief. I bet that's the real reason Basso's taken such a shining to you..." 

Gwenevere continued to hum and fidget within her dreams, completely unaware of Garrett's presence. The thief wondered why she wasn't cold; laying with her ass practically in the air like that. 

"You have no idea how fortunate you are right now," he mumbled in a sinister tone, "that I despise you..." 

A criminal of less dignity would have taken her just like that. Against her will, protests, and tears. But even if that pesky moppet had of been stark naked, Garrett couldn't have cared less. He took great pride in the fact that he wasn't anything like the others. He, was a master. And what value could a Master Thief possibly find in such spontaneous, and lewd acts? 

Besides, girls like her, really weren't his type. The thief, had a fetish for danger. For women who could just as easily love him, as they could slit his throat. Wild eyes, piercing grins. Garrett relished the opportunity to court peril; to cheat with death. There simply was no challenge in a delicate and innocent girl like this. Beautiful, or not.

Shaking his head, Garrett stood from the stairway and headed back to his own bed. He blew out the single candle situated atop his crude dresser, silence permeating the nocturnal abyss. He withdrew his prosthetic eye, his remaining optic gleaming amidst the creeping shadows. 

But for whatever inane reason, the thief was finding it difficult to rest.

As the hours waned on, Garrett remained wakeful. Thumbing through the pages of one of his favorite novels, his face firm amidst the restored candlelight. The night was his; to plunder his riches, and race along the rooftops. Or in this case, to catch up on the latest adventures of a certain fictitious thief. Garrett had re-read all of Robber Hood's grand adventures an uncounted number of times since his youth. Or rather, since Artemus had taught him to read. 

Although he wasn't accustomed to sleeping in the evenings anymore, Garrett had hoped to catch a quick nap before dawn on that particular night. Something told him, that the bouncy little damsel wasn't going to be keeping quiet during the day, thus throwing a kink in his diurnal rest period. 

As his thumb skimmed lazily over the second paragraph of chapter fifteen, the thief's eyes finally began to droop. A gust of chilly wind violated his sanctum, snuffing out the erratic little candle flame. A raven cackled overhead, and the book slipped from his hand. 

***

THE CITY  
THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO:

A young boy, more skeleton than child, sat amidst a sea of busy faces. With his frail and hurting body hunched over against the cold city wall, most probably presumed him long dead. Either that, or none could find enough compassion within their souls to care about his torment. But this lad was no stranger to suffering; to hunger, or fear. Discomfort was a persistent--albeit harsh reminder--that against impossible odds, he still yet lived. 

His body shivered, as he felt the icy rain pelt against his ragged clothing. He clenched his shoulder in agony, grinding his teeth as the ruthless barrage ignited a fire within his fresh wounds. The sudden pressure caused the injury to pulsate and bleed, prompting the boy to moan as a fresh stream of dark crimson erupted from beneath his palm. 

"Those damned Hammers..." he cursed. 

Dreams. Plans for the future. A warm bed, and a loving family. Everything this bronze-eyed youth had once cherished, had been taken away by that steadfast and barbarous holy order. Men whose tongues were laced with ancient prayers. Men who wore deep scarlet vestments, to hide the blood on their hands. Though he did not understand the complexities of their religion, Garrett had to wonder what sort of god would encourage his apostles to strike down a helpless, hungry child. After all, it had only been a handful of gold. 

The boy had taken the risk. Made the terrible mistake of pickpocketing a Hammerite. And for that, he'd paid a grueling price indeed. The exact set of reasons or circumstances leading up to his serendipitous escape, still eluded the boy as he continued to shudder and rock there in the musty dark. He'd reacted with a leap, once the first blow had landed. Partially out of pain, but more likely, out of recollection. Afterwards, Garrett had felt his body act alone. Nerves and fibers taking over, guiding his limbs and maneuvers as though the scrawny lad were but a simple marionette. It was perhaps the most freakish experience he'd had thus far, over the course of his young life. An involuntary response, to a lethal peril. 

His dazed recollections were shattered, when his empty stomach began to protest once again. These were arduous throbs, and much worse than any Garrett had ever experienced before. The deep and cramping pains would have caused him to recoil into a ball of misery, were it not for that grueling slash to his shoulder and upper back. Through hazy, hungry eyes, the boy moaned, and went back to watched the bustling procession before him. 

A woman wearing a large purple feather in her hat, her face prim and expressionless. A man on his way to the foundries, his face disheveled and his clothing worn. Two children, tugging at their mother's hem, beckoning her in the direction of the sweet shop. A dog, bounding and prancing before the local butcher, its tail wiggling madly. It seemed as though everyone had decided to go out for one reason or another on that otherwise mundane Wednesday afternoon. Everyone, had a place to be. A purpose. All except for Garrett. 

As his detached, exhausted eyes began to close, something jolted them wide open. A tall, intimidating man was also making his way through the chaos. He passed between the dog and the butcher, the woman and her earnest children. None of them seemed to take notice of his presence. Garrett squinted his eyes, perplexed by the entire scenario. Were they purposefully granting this man his discretion? Was he someone of great significance? One of the baron's henchman, perhaps? Whatever the case, the starving boy's interest had been captured. 

Scrambling to his feet, he fell in behind the robed individual, and tailed him into a dark alleyway. With as much guile and determination as he could muster in his weakened state, the young pickpocket prepared to make his move. His ravenous eyes sparkled, when Garrett noticed a bulging coin purse mere inches from his hand. After struggling for a few seconds to steady his quaking fingers, the boy reached out and made a grab. 

Garrett's heart nearly stopped, when a rough hand clamped down onto his grimy little wrist with a ferocious vice grip. The stranger's gloved fingers tightened, as the terrified boy fought desperately to retract his extremity. But it was hopeless. With a mouthful of cold terror, Garrett forced himself to stare up into the pensive face of his captor. 

Beneath the dreary confines of a tattered old cowl, were the most curious set of eyes the young boy had ever seen. They were a silvery grey, augmented by a glimmer of mystery. A stillness remained upon lips starved for speech. Questions, which this feisty young street urchin would never know. Artemus blinked, taking in the bedraggled and stringy boy, who now flailed and fought against his grip with the tenacity of a roped buck. 

"Let go of me!" Garrett demanded, attempting to sound much older in the process. 

But the hooded man, did not do as asked. Icy fear began to rattle the boy. His insides twitched from a mixture of fear and hunger, and his wound began to pulse again with a cruel and intense ache. But worst of all, was the adrenaline filling his system. It felt like a swarm of insects had just entered his gut, squirming and wriggling throughout every inch of his captured form. His vision tilted, growing hazier with each hyperventilated breath he took.

Desperation prevalent upon his gaunt face, the street urchin reached behind his back, and clasped the handle of his late father's dagger. The moment he did so, something shifted within the eerie stranger's disposition. Artemus's silver eyes flashed, and before Garrett could attempt his planned assault, a single sentence rendered him breathless:

"Drop your weapon, boy."

And Garrett, did just that. 

Gasping for breath, he leered upward once more. Given the dominating power of his words, the boy expected to see a face boiling with outrage. But instead of furious or threatening, the hooded man's expression appeared rather inquisitive. 

"Why won't you let me go?" Garrett tried, without thinking better of it, "you gonna drag me off to the watch then?"

"No," the man shook his head. Garrett felt the blood drain away from his filthy cheeks.

"Oh please sir...not the Hammers..." he begged. 

The strong, dubious voice of a much older boy had given way to that of a very frightened ten-year-old waif.

"No. Not them either," Artemus confirmed gently, in a half-hearted attempt to ease the boy's turbulent thoughts. 

He knew this child must have already been through much, if drawing a dagger had become such a cursory course of action. Garrett's body began to relax; at least, as much as it could, given the circumstances. A grown man still held him captive, and had made apparent--and presumably rather unorthodox--plans, regarding the young thief's fate. 

"Then...what exactly...do you want from me?" Garrett heard himself gulp. 

Artemus felt his fingers tremble, the insignia upon his ring shimmering beneath the waning torchlight. Without another word, he released his grip on the boy. Garrett stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his own legs in the process. He gave the cryptic wanderer a look of astonishment, his brown eyes wide with intrigue. 

He wanted to ask, why. Why, after all that trouble, had this strange man chosen to simply release his would-be cutpurse? But before the boy could mumble out a single word, the imposing figure spoke first. 

"Pick up your blade," he ordered. 

Listening to the orders of a complete stranger, was the last thing the petrified boy wanted to do. He was a thief caught in the act, staring upward at an imposing man who could now do unto him whatever he wished here in the darkness. 

Perhaps more than ever before--save once--the lad wanted to run. But his legs refused to allow it. Every inch of him felt frozen, powerless. 

Palms sweltering despite the frigidness of mid-October, Garrett did as he was bade. Cradling the deadly heirloom against his chest somehow granted the terrified young boy the ability to speak.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, in a quaking voice. "Are you simply letting me go?"

"If that is your desire..." Artemus decreed. Garrett, was dumbfounded.

"Wait, what?! Are you serious? You aren't even upset?"

"Why should I be?"

"I just tried to ROB you!!" the boy hollered, before thinking better of it. 

His face was one of disbelief, and an incredibly blatant disrespect. However, the hooded sentinel appeared far from offended.

"And yet, I harbor no malice over your previous attempt, lad," a thin crescent of a smile contorted within the gloom of the man's cowl.

"But why?" Garrett bawked. His previous urge to sprint was now overtaken by a bizarre curiosity. 

"The short answer--you have managed to pique my interest. It takes great skill to sneak up on a Keeper; especially one who does not wish to be seen," the stranger explained, an impressed smile replacing his once strict expression. 

"Keeper? What the taff's a Keeper?!" Garrett's eyebrow quirked. 

"What is your name?" Artemus asked, ignoring the boy's inquiry. 

The scrawny orphan gulped down his tension, and readied himself for whatever was about to transpire. He was on his own now; he had to be brave. With a final breath of forced courage, he stared the strange hooded man dead in the eyes. 

"Garrett." 

***

THE CITY  
PRESENT DAY:

"Garrett! Garrett, wake up!" 

The thief opened his eyes with a pestered groan, the harsh morning light serving as an obnoxious backdrop to Gwenevere's smiling little face. 

But that smile, crumbled like an avalanche when the girl noticed the gaping, lifeless hollow staring back at her from where his right eye should have been. Garrett cringed when she gasped, and abruptly turned away from her staring eyes and gaping maw. He wasn't used to anyone seeing him without his prosthetic--not to mention the fact that he was practically nude underneath the thin bedsheet. Rolling over on his mattress, the agitated thief clutched the sheets tighter around his body and head.

"Go. Away," he muttered under his breath. 

Empathy and anguish hastily replaced shock, as Gwenevere realized that she may have just offended her new friend. Cupping her hands up around her mouth, she began to shudder. She had no reason to fear him, and Gwenevere knew that. Aside from being a general grouch with a callous tongue, Garrett had done nothing to hurt her. Yet here she was--cowering away from a disfigurement that he could not help.

"Garrett, I...I brought you breakfast," Gwenevere offered, sounding especially kindhearted in lieu of what had just transpired. 

The thief leered over his shoulder at her, his remaining brown eye darkening with a vehemence that served to highlight his obvious vexation.

"I sleep during the day, alright? Take your charity somewhere else," he grumbled. Gwenevere's posture wilted, and she sank to her knees beside his bed. 

"I'm sorry..." she whispered in a voice so low, that Garrett had to strain to hear her. 

"What?" he snapped, jerking upwards. The sheets covering his head remained, resembling a white and stained version of his usual hood.

"I--" she jolted upright, her green eyes glistening like glass amidst the neglected dreariness. "I just said I was sorry...for...for--"

"--waking me up?" Garrett snorted, concluding the apology for her. 

Though he knew this wasn't the real reason she was expressing such grievous remorse. The agitated thief simply didn't want her mentioning his eye again. Or rather, lack thereof. Gwenevere recognized his evasive tactics almost immediately. With the defeated, sympathetic sigh, she gave Garrett a brilliant and honest smile. 

"Sure," she beamed.

Reaching over to the lockbox he kept beside his mattress, Garrett opened the metal lid with a creak, and produced his mechanical eye. He polished the object between the folds of his sheets, before promptly popping it back into the barren socket. Rather warily, he glared back down at Gwenevere. The girl had made a very obvious point of averting her gaze from this particular part of his daily routine, and Garrett noticed that she was chewing on her hair again. 

"I thought you said you brought breakfast," he prompted, after clearing his throat. 

"Well I did!" Gwenevere spoke, damp red hair still tucked between her teeth. The thief pressed his lips together, miffed that she had missed the obvious sarcasm in his words. 

"Then why are you eating your hair?" he clarified. Gwenevere's pupils dilated, and embarrassed, she spat the strand away from her lips. 

"I wasn't eating it!" she defended. "I just...chew it when I get nervous..."

Garrett pulled the bedsheets off of his head, and glared at her.

"If it makes you so uncomfortable being around a half-blind man, then you can just--"

"--that wasn't what makes me uncomfortable!" Gwenevere retorted. There was a short and rather awkward pause between her panting, and Garrett's bewildered reaction to her outburst. "I just don't understand why you're always so cross with me. You haven't even been awake for ten minutes, and you're already shouting at me!"

The dreary remains of slumber dissipated in response to the scrappy girl, and her bold words. Garrett shot her a positively ugly sneer.

"Well then, maybe you shouldn't have woken me up!" he snapped harshly. 

But Gwenevere did not cower before him this time, as she had so many times before. This time, she stood her ground. She stood from the floorboards, and scowled down at the perplexed rogue. Puffing out her little chest and sucking back her top lip, she balled her fingers into two tight fists.

"I just wanted to eat with you!" she hollered, "I thought it would be nice to share our first meal together. I didn't know you slept during the day! You never told me that. You haven't told me ANYTHING about yourself, Garrett!"

Garrett sneered up at her, a scathing rebuttal hovering on the tip of his tongue. He started to stand up, prepared to once again corner and dwarf this tiresome little imp. To give her some well-deserved degradation. To remind her that her family name held no power within this place. But logical realization served to hush him, if only for the unfortunate reality that he wasn't even dressed yet. 

So he just sat there, glaring at her from his bed. Mulling over the complex and torturous fate his greed had caused. He'd taken Basso's payment--he'd taken the job. A reluctant groan left Garrett's nostrils. He'd never turned down a difficult job before--especially such a well-paying one. Just what was it about this irksome little maiden that irritated him so? 

Just think of how you're going to spend all that money. Forget the girl. She'll be out of the way before you know it, he grimaced, trying not to feel her invasive eyes upon him.

While Garrett had never been especially kind, he was exceedingly patient. This was, after all, Gwenevere's first full day in his presence. And while she'd been bubbly and forthcoming about her own personal lifestyle and quirks, the thief had remained as twisted and unfathomable as a wood nymph's heart. Gradually, his rigid posture grew slack.

"All right, fair enough" he groaned as he forced himself to a sit, sighing in tentative resignation. "So, what's for breakfast then?"

Gwenevere's anger diminished in response to his casual nature. Fighting back her budding excitement, a small trill escaped her pursed lips. 

"Bread," the giddy damsel chirruped. "I also managed to swipe some Nethalzian grapes!"

Garrett's jaw flopped open like flimsy rubber. 

"You're telling me, that you woke me up for bread and grapes?" Despite his obvious irritability, his tone was more contemptuous and mocking than upset. 

"Is something wrong?" Gwenevere cocked her head.

"Tch, I just assumed you'd have brought more than that," the rogue muttered through a condescending grin.

"Listen, it was all I could find! Besides, grapes are really, really good!" Gwenevere snapped. "Now do you want some or not?!" 

Garrett blinked. Who was this girl? She could go from meek and innocent, to brash and bold within moments. Simmons or not, there was definitely a story there. 

"Next time, steal me some apples. I'll take a slice and a handful, but then I'm going right back to sleep," the thief yawned. "And I suggest you do the same. We've got a busy night of training ahead of us." 

"Really?!" Gwenevere's entire body began to vibrate with excitement. Fingers trembling like little fish, as she reached into her bright blue knapsack and producing the stolen fare. 

"Yeah. Really," Garrett repeated, starting up at the ceiling. He watched as a rat scurried across one of the long-dead gears, bathed in a resplendent spotlight of sunbeams, and swirling dust. 

"Oh, goody!" the girl's smile grew wide.

After spreading a lacy handkerchief out over one of the numerous wooden crates which infested the angsty moonlighter's domain, she placed the grapes down and reached for the bread. Holding out her index finger, a beam of odd green energy sprung from her polished digit, slicing through the loaf with ease. Garrett peered down at this with mild interest, as his apprentice repeated the procedure a second time. 

"Ever hear of using a knife?" he commented.

"I don't have one," the girl replied, her sweet voice distracted and laced with naivety. Garrett scoffed, shaking his head.

"Yeah. Of course you don't..." he muttered. 

"Here ya go!" Gwenevere smiled, as she handed him the first slice. 

It was heated, and crispy from her rather interesting carving method. The thief took the only warm meal he'd had in days within his calloused, haggard hands with ravenous haste. Though he did not thank her, his face conveyed just how appreciative he was. And Gwenevere smiled, feeling quite pleased with herself. 

***

As they sat and ate in silence, Gwenevere once again surveyed her surroundings. The clock tower was even more dismal during the day. At least in the darkness of night, she hadn't been able to see the dead rats and ravens scattered amidst the corners. Clouds of dust motes danced in the sunbeams like a fine pollen, and the pillars of the vaulted ceiling were decorated in intricate cobwebs and fuzzy mold. 

"I suppose you don't like to clean, huh?" she giggled. Garrett glowered at her from beneath his bedsheet. Gwenevere's face beamed a brilliant red, surprise registering within her features. "Oh, hey! I didn't mean to offend you or anything! I hate cleaning too! It's really just a huge waste of--"

"--are you gonna eat that?" the thief interrupted, pointing to the half-eaten bread in her hand. It was her second slice. The girl looked down at her food, then shook her head.

"Nah! You can have it if you want to," she offered. Garrett merely sneered at her kind offer.

"What makes you think I'd want that?" 

"B-but you just asked--"

"--I was trying to shut you up. Apparently, it didn't work," Garrett snapped.

Gwenevere frowned, her face riddled with confusion and hurt. She stretched out her legs, arching her back in order to recline onto her palms. She looked down at her velvety blue pumps, opening and closing the gap between her feet. Garrett took one look at her shoes, and what he saw caused his brows to furrow in bewilderment.

"Are those...your bedroom slippers?" he pointed. 

Gwenevere kicked one of her legs up in response, prompting the appalled moonlighter to turn away with an abhorred exclamation. Unlike Basso, Garrett had no desire to chance a peek at her undergarments. Assuming that she was even wearing any, dressed like that!

"Why yes! I had to run away in a hurry, so I just grabbed the first pair of shoes I could find. Turns out, they weren't really shoes at all!" she laughed, as if the entire exchange had been a humorous joke. 

No wonder she thought they were comfy... the thief groaned, rubbing his temples. Gwenevere noticed this, and craned her head to the side in an inquisitive fashion.

"Is...is there something wrong with them?" she peeped. 

"Yeah. You could say that," Garrett replied sardonically.

"Oh? What is it?"

"Really? You really don't see the problem with a thief wearing bedroom slippers?!" 

"No, not really," the girl shrugged. "I mean, they're comfy, and since I'll be doing a lot of running and climbing isn't that a good thing?"

"Right, you'll be doing a lot of strenuous activity," Garrett nodded, "which means those measly things will be worn through in no time."

"Oh..." Gwenevere looked down at her 'shoes' again, and wiggled her toes. Garrett wiped the remaining crumbs from his bedsheets, and looked at her. 

"You know what might help?" 

"No, what?" Gwenevere grew jovial upon hearing what she perceived, as upcoming friendly advice. 

"Dressing like an actual thief, instead of a taffing whore," he remarked with smug glee. 

"Whore? What's a whore?" she asked, pulling at the silver rim of her corset. 

Her answer, utterly floored him. Garrett already realized just how little his new charge understood about the world outside of her pristine castle. But this...

"As in a woman who pleases men sexually for money?" he raised an eyebrow as he spoke. 

Gwenevere gasped, her emerald eyes flying open in abject horror. She had no idea what her showy outfit had been suggesting about her! It had at least begun to occur to her, that she was dressed nothing like the people she had met since coming to the slums. But the very idea of such beautiful clothing belonging to a sex worker, left her flustered and baffled.

"I...I thought this was how the beautiful women of your class dressed..." she whimpered. Garrett's mouth contorted into a elongated chasm at her latest asinine presumption.

"My...class?" he confirmed.

"Why yes!" Gwenevere giggled, starting to feel a little less foolish in lieu of her mentor's comical expression. "I mean, sure. I have seen women of your species dressed in other outfits as well. But when I ran away, I wanted to look my best!" 

"Species...what?!" Garrett's eye twitched, his entire mind battling to wrap itself around such lunacy. But Gwenevere's frilly little brain was already a world away; nonsense incarnate as she continued to ramble on with utmost joviality.

"I remember seeing several of them walking around wearing stained brown dresses and such. Although some of them DID have on some pretty green and red gowns--oh!"

"Gwenevere..."

"I mean, I suppose dark colors can be most practical, but I just love colors!! That's why I decided to go back to where Simmons used to take me. That's where I found this!" the clueless girl motioned to her paled blue costume. 

"Gwenevere?"

"Can't for the life of me recall the name of the place though..." she shrugged.

"You about done?" the thief groused. 

"Uh-huh!" Gwenevere beamed. Garrett had seldom felt so alleviated.

"So let me get this straight: You broke into the House of Blossoms, just so you could lift a pretty outfit?" Garrett confirmed.

"Yes! That was the place!" Gwenevere bounced up and down on her rump. "Ooh! I always thought the women there were so pretty!"

"Apparently, so did your old man," the sullen rogue scoffed dryly. 

"But I had no idea they were sex workers!" Gwenevere shot him a nasty glare. "You could have told me sooner ya know...how I looked I mean..." she buried her face in her hands. 

"I only mentioned it because I don't want you giving away your position out there," Garrett stretched. "Basso would kill me if the watch happened to spot you. After all, I'm apparently your keeper now..." 

A sudden jolt gripped at his chest as the snide quip left his lips. A strange, pensive expression darkened Garrett's features, as the dream he'd had just hours prior took frontal position within his ravaged mind. It had been fifteen years now, and yet they haunted him still. 

Her keeper? Keeper. And here I always thought that bad puns were Basso's thing... 

"Are...are you alright?" Gwenevere asked, rousing the thief from his vacant stupor. Taking notice of the girl's troubled face, Garrett shook himself and stretched out atop his mattress. 

"I'm fine," he grumbled. "I'm just a bit tired after being woken up."

"B-but I...I said I was sorry..." Gwenevere mewled. 

"Hey, since you're so wakeful, make yourself useful and tidy the place up or something. You know, since it's bothering you and all..." the thief yawned, rolling over. 

"B-but what about my training? Shouldn't I be getting ready for that?" Gwenevere complained, frantic to avoid having to clean. She hated the very idea of tidying up. The dust always got up her nose and caused her to sneeze. 

"Do as you're told," Garrett groused. Gwenevere began to pout, turning away from him as she reached for a nearby broom and bucket.

"Fine," she stuck out her tongue. "I'll clean your stupid clock. But what about--"

"--after the sun goes down, I'll start your training. But we'll have to go and see about getting you a change of apparel beforehand, Gwenevere."

Due to his dreary state of half-cognizant muttering, she nearly missed it. The girl's eyes widened, and she reluctantly looked over her shoulder at the exhausted criminal.

"You...remembered my name..." she gaped, dropping her tools. 

"Tch, you really think I'm stupid, don't you?" the thief grunted as he adjusted his position in the bed. "Truth is, Gwenevere; I've always known your name. I just didn't care--and I wanted to make that perfectly clear."

"Uh, so then why did you keep on calling me the wrong things?" she inquired, a partial trust reminiscent within her slight features at best. Noticing her skepticism, Garrett shot her a wry grin.

"Just tryin' to piss you off..."   
   


	8. Camouflage

Metal clangs and hissing pipes permeated the dank air, as thief and apprentice descended through the hollow clocktower. Gwenevere's eyes remained locked within a perpetual state of wonderment, as she surveyed the strange and fascinating contraptions left behind by the Hammerites. Gears larger than carriages, deadly mechanisms that could crush her if she dared venture too close. Squinting her eyes, the young woman tugged onto Garrett's cloak. The thief shot her a positively disgusted glare.

"The taff do you want?" 

Gwenevere bit her bottom lip in response. 

"Umm...I was just wondering why some of these machines are still running. The clocktower has been out of commission for years now. It neither chimes nor keeps time anymore," she remarked, feeling timid.

"The Hammers took better care of this unfeeling tower than most mothers do their own children," Garrett remarked, staring off into the dank nothingness ahead of him. "They were apparently in the process of repairing it when the Baron kicked em' out."

"Well why'd he do that?"

"Frivolous costs, the City's funds going to the wrong places; something like that," the thief shrugged. 

"Oh. Methinks the Hammerites were pretty angry!" Gwenevere cocked her head in concern.

"Obviously," Garrett snorted. "But ever since the whole mayhem with Karras sixteen years back, Northcrest has been limiting how much influence and power the factions are allowed to have. So, it's not as though they can really do a damn thing about it."

"Gee Garrett, you don't seem to care all that much for them."

"What exactly was your first guess?" he groused. 

"Well actually, you don't seem to care all that much for anyone, I've noticed," the girl continued. "Why is this?"

"Because I have no reason to," he muttered. "Feelings are a sign of weakness. They only get you into trouble. You'd be wise to remember that, kid."

But of course, Garrett knew that the cheerful fledgling who tweeted and grinned behind him now, was far from wise. Glancing over his shoulder again, he noticed her fascination with the tower only seemed to have escalated the deeper they progressed. 

"Garrett?"

"What?"

"Where are we going?"

"Gwenevere, there's more than one way out of the clocktower. If you're going to be staying here for a while, then you should at the very least know where the exits are located."

"Ah," the girl nodded, closing her eyes. Then, a sudden thought. "Garrett?"

"What now?" he sighed.

"How long have you been living here?" 

"Long enough."

Gwenevere resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead clicking her tongue in response. They trotted past a colossal, motionless pendulum, which must have been quite the sight back when it was running smoothly. She wondered how the Hammerites could stand to remain within the center of this place, once the clock chimed. Certainly the resonant baritone would have been most deafening!

Gwenevere peered upward, marveling at the intricate patterns of the forlorn clockface. Watching as she and Garrett's forms cast eerie silhouettes against its inert surface. They descended a rickety stairway, iron railings and worm-eaten wood lining their path. Overhead, several steel girders caused the runaway to flinch, as she began to fret over their stability. Suffice to say, she hurried past this particular section of the tower. 

A tattered burgundy tapestry caught her eye, the Hammerite insignia emblazoned across the center. Garrett walked right past the decaying drapery as though it had been a mere cobweb. Hitching up her long navy cape, Gwenevere scampered off after him. It wasn't until they reached the rather homely communal dormitory, that she spoke again.

"Why don't you just sleep down here?" she pointed. "Just look at all these nice beds!" 

"I'd prefer not to," Garrett grumbled.

"Why?" the girl blinked.

"I don't particularly relish the idea of sleeping in a bed where a Hammer used to be."

"Why?"

Her latest display of bothersome behavior prompted the criminal to halt his procession, and whirl around to face her. Gwenevere leapt back like a frightened cat, her eyes wide and luminous. 

"Look, if you really want to, why don't YOU sleep down here?!" he snapped. "After all, who sleeps on stairs anyway?"

It took a moment for Gwenevere to register upon the meaning of these words. But when she did, the girl shot him a knowing expression. She closed her eyes, and began to fret with her hair once again as she proceeded to answer his question. 

"I just like how it feels. Wood is sturdy, and cool to the touch. Maybe it does sound a little odd, but I really do receive so much comfort from sleeping there," she explained, her tone gentle. Perhaps even a touch saddened. "I'm sorry, I really should behave more like a lady, shouldn't I? I am a guest in your home, after all."

Garrett squinted his eyes. Just when he thought this girl couldn't get any stranger, she was always content to outdo herself. 

He remembered the breakthrough he'd had earlier that day--how it was unfair, and downright foolish to expect the girl to understand his reasoning, when she knew nothing about him.   
It bothered the reticent man on numerous levels; how his balance seemed to outright collapse whenever he was around her. Never before had he cared what others thought, or what they assumed about his life. So why was it that Gwenevere's blissful ignorance to his inner workings irked him so? 

Although he could indeed still see her there behind him, Garrett refused to look at her. She just made him so uncomfortable, and he had no clarification as to why. 

But whenever she exhibited such untold sadness, the thief's interest in her surmounted any of his usual detached tendencies. That semblance of a profound tragedy enshrouded Gwenevere now, and it was enough to flood Garrett with an uncharacteristic level of interest. 

The nobility appeased whatever paltry suffering they might experience during the course of their mundane existences, with possessions and parties. And, as is often the case for those who are vain and egotistical, everything which did not grant them utmost joy, was ultimately forgotten.

They did not tend to dwell on past mistakes, or personal anguish the way ordinary people did. For in their eyes, they were as gods. 

Perhaps now, more than ever before, Garrett yearned to know Gwenevere's secret. That nebulous burden she kept hidden beneath warm smiles, and gay laughter. But he knew, uncovering such a mystery would first require something which the moonlighter wasn't all-too experienced with obtaining: Trust. 

Looking back at the musty old beds, Garrett released a soft sigh. Silently, he accepted this new challenge. He had to know. For what purpose--save for putting his own curiosity to rest--he couldn't quite discern. But it was something he needed to attain. 

The very notion of such a careless girl harboring untold information, bothered him. Perhaps, it would also serve to alleviate his growing paranoia. If he could only discover why she was there, why she wanted to become a thief. Maybe then, Garrett would finally be able to ascertain whether or not she posed any real threat to him. 

"Look. Gwenevere," he began in a gravelly, distant voice, "You don't have to put on a show for me, alright? I don't need you to be ladylike, or to change anything about your personality. So long as you do as I say, we're good."

The redhead's lips contorted into a confused frown.

"But then, why did you say that thing about the stairs?"

"Look, I didn't mean to pry, okay?" Garrett snapped. "If you enjoy sleeping on the stairs, well then that's your business. I just thought I'd offer you a more comfortable place to sleep. That's all."

Gwenevere's face lit up in surprise. That, was perhaps the kindest thing the thief had ever said to her. Shuffling her feet, the girl tucked her hands behind her back, and swayed from side to side. Her sudden shyness, caught Garrett completely off guard. Gwenevere smiled up at him. 

"It's alright. I didn't expect you to understand. No one ever has, really. But, it was...nice of you to think of me."

"You might still want to consider it," Garrett grinned. "You'd have more privacy down here. Your own room and everything." The offer was more for his sake than hers; a futile attempt to regain at least a portion of his relinquished solitude. But that was far from the way Gwenevere interpreted it. 

Her hopeless expression softened, sparse moonlight and shadows creating a delicate shimmer around her face, and through her long red hair. Garrett nearly flinched when he saw her cheeks light up with a warm blush. She marveled up at the imposing dark figure, as he continued to watch her through pensive, burning eyes. 

"Thank you, Garrett. But there's really no other place in the tower I'd rather be."

***

Progression through Stonemarket to the Crippled Burrick went just as well as  could be expected. Gwenevere continued to pester and pry at her hooded master's thoughts and perceptions, whilst Garrett did his best to ignore her. It had become a sort of game to the thief; seeing just how long he could ignore her before snapping, or otherwise giving into her persistent badgering for some slight semblance of relief. 

"Garrett?!?"

"What?!?" he caved. Ten minutes that time. 

"So, you said that I had training tonight? What am I going to be doing?" the girl asked, her tone meek and placid, as it often was when he'd just barked at her. It was Gwenevere's attempt at an unspoken, humble apology.

Garrett continued to listen to the rustling leaves as they walked, taking in the sensational--albeit often overlooked--ambiance of twilight. He licked his lips, lubricating them against the frigid gales of early Autumn, as they continued to walk further into the heart of town. 

"Nothing much," he replied with a smack of his jaws. "You desperately need to work on your stealth. So we'll be going over some balance and silence exercises." 

"Balance? Silence?" the bubbly redhead inquired, kicking along a pebble as they walked. 

"As in, 'don't fall off of the beam', and 'keep your mouth shut'," Garrett remarked sardonically. 

"That doesn't sound too terribly hard," Gwenevere cheered, her voice jolly and light. "I'll give it my best tonight, Garrett!" 

"Yeah whatever."

As the outline of the Crippled Burrick tavern came into view, Garrett came to a halt. Gwenevere, who was still playing with her little rock, had to be halted manually. She shot up with rigid stiffness, nearly shrieking again when the thief's firm grip found her shoulder. But somehow, her mind remembered what Garrett had warned her about such careless outcries, cementing her mouth closed. Swallowing her shock, the girl allowed her body to be pulled back into the darkness. 

"Why are we hiding?" she whispered. Garrett's response was to cup a gloved hand around her lips. Gwenevere's brows furrowed, and she shot him an agitated glare. But she did not resist, nor attempt to speak again.

The sound of raucous, drunken laughter prompted the doll-eyed girl to jump with panic. Instinctively, Gwenevere huddled closer against Garrett, causing the thief to give her a rather perturbed stare. But his attention was averted from her odd reaction, as two large men came lumbering further out of the tavern. 

They weren't with the watch--this much was obvious from their lack of uniforms. But there was something about their clothing which was eerily familiar to the thief. Something, that had persuaded him to take cover immediately out of an instinctual trepidation. Garrett's eyes narrowed, as the two began to converse.

"Did you catch the tits on that bar wench? If she's who I think she is, that dame's aged well!" the nearest man bellowed to his companion, making rather vulgar maneuvers with his hands. 

"Damn right I did, you taffer! I'd love to tap a piece of that, if we weren't so busy with business." 

"So we come back on our day off, yeah? She'll still be here!" 

"An' what if she ain't interested?"

"Then we take turns holdin' her down until she is," the first man burst out into vile laughter, joined soon after by his wobbling compatriot.

"Heh, ya think I'm gonna share her with you?"

"Good luck wranglin' that wild mare by yourself," the first man snorted. "Sophie'd rip you apart in two seconds."

"Hey, dancin' with death, mate," the second drunk smirked with a shrug, "always a real thrill."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, speakin' of thrills, does the boss have any word on that missing Simmons tart?" 

Gwenevere's eyes widened, and even though her back was against his body, Garrett swore he felt her heart beating madly. He also felt as the girl attempted to slink even further back against him. The thief could feel her backside starting to nestle between his legs. It was a precarious and awkward situation, to say the least. And it was made even more so, as Gwenevere began to tremble.

Garrett went back to surveying the two men again, his eyes narrow and pensive like those of a savage predator. Or, more aptly, a hunted fox. 

"Naw. Still no word," the second man burped. 

"Well keep an ear out, taffer. Boss says findin' that dollymop's our top objective, see? Master Simmons is considering a reward for her return."

"How much?"

"He didn't specify. But, times is tough. We gots ta take our chances where we can, yeah? Besides," the first man's lips curled upwards into a disturbing smile, "apparently, Simmons don't care if someone has ta rough her up a bit, either. As long as she's alive, he'll pay." 

Garrett raised his eyebrow at that, and looked down at the petite girl currently nestled against his chest. He watched as Gwenevere winced, listened as she softly whimpered against his hand. Now he understood why his primeval urge to hide had been activated. He knew these men, and why they were after Gwenevere. They were bounty hunters. 

Their kind had been after him before too. Though such pursuits had become rarefied, despite the ridiculous bounty upon his own head. Very few men possessed the bravery or skill to hunt down the infamous Master Thief. 

But of every volatile word to spew past their slobbering lips on that night, it was perhaps that last bit which caused Garrett's insides to stiffen with sickness. Now, he was beginning to understand why Gwenevere had run away from home. Why a noble like her would dream of turning rogue. 

Basso had pointed out before; just how odd and unnatural it was for a father to allow such unsavory fellows to hunt their own child without regulations. The very idea caused the thief to grind his teeth behind his compressed lips. Although he honestly couldn't stand Gwenevere, even she did not deserve to be hurtled into such an murky game of chance. 

Stating that he wanted his child brought back alive, wasn't exactly safeguarding anything as far as Garrett was concerned. Alive, was but an active state of being, and there were many stages of drawing breath. The girl could return to him beaten, starved, and raped, and the lord would not bat an eyelid. What's more; Simmons would apparently still offer her assailant the reward money. 

Garrett's eyes filled with a bizarre mixture of intrigue and apprehension, as he looked down at the quaking maiden. Though she was both a whimsical and foolish girl, the thief realized that she too must have understood the murky technicality in her father's proposition. The thief frowned. If Lord Vladimir Simmons truly cared this little over the welfare of his only daughter, Garrett had to wonder: What sort of nightmare awaited Gwenevere back at the Simmons family estate? 

The inebriated men laughed in unison, before disappearing further down the opposite street. Once he was sure that they were long gone, Garrett rose from his hiding spot, bringing Gwenevere up with him. He locked eyes with her, as he removed his hand from her mouth. For a moment, a look of genuine pity registered itself within his sullen features. 

"Come on, Gwenevere. Let's go."

***

Two quick raps to the heavy oak door roused Basso from his doldrums. Poking his head out the front, the boxman was surprised to see Garrett leering back at him, the cheerful little fallen cherub of an apprentice by his side.

"Oh, hey," Basso yawned, his eyelids heavy with a mixture of dreariness and boredom. "Didn't expect ta see you two back again so soon..."

"Didn't expect to BE back, old man," Garrett grumbled. "But there's a situation with the little rhinestone princess."

Basso looked back down at Gwenevere, who giggled and waggled her fingers at him. The boxman slapped his hand across his forehead with a groan.

"Aw taff it all, Garrett! Now I told you no more bellyach--"

"--it isn't about that!" Garrett interrupted with a snarl. "Gwenevere ran away in her bedroom slippers. And knowing you, I'm sure you've already noticed the rest of her apparel."

"Did you just come here to remind me of what a letch I am, Garrett?" Basso blinked. "Because I really don't need you to do that."

"The point is, Basso," Garrett rolled his eyes, "she doesn't have anything appropriate to wear for training." 

Basso looked Gwenevere over with wide-eyed comprehension.

"Aww, the poor kid needs clothes? Well why didn't ya just say so?!" 

"I thought I just did..." 

Basso made a few mocking facial expressions and sounds in response, before smiling and holding out his arms for Gwenevere. 

"Hey, there's my gal!" the shabby man hugged her. "So, ya need some more practical duds, huh? Not gonna lie--I really love your current look," he winked. Garrett rolled his eyes with a groan. Gwenevere smiled, completely missing the hint of flirtation. 

"Oh thanks, but Garrett says that I should try to look more like a thief and less like a lady of the evening. Which, I don't get. Don't thieves come out at night anyway?" she cocked her head. Basso gaped at her inquiry, before bursting out into booming, dirty laughter. 

"They're not the only ones, kiddo," leaning over, he gave Garrett a bemused look. "Did you really say that?!" Garrett remained stationary, although Gwenevere was sure that she heard him groan again under his breath. 

"Oh yeah, sure! I'm learning a lot from Garrett actually! Pretty soon, I'll be able to steal all on my own!" the jovial girl proclaimed. 

"Don't count on it..." Garrett muttered. Basso observed the two closely, and began to chuckle. 

"I'm sure ya will, kid. I'm sure you will. Oh, and by the way, I have a personal assignment for you." 

"Oh?" Gwenevere asked. 

"Try to teach this taffer a thing or two about humor, huh?" Basso nudged Garrett's arm. The thief, was not amused. 

"Alright Basso, do you have replacement duds for the girl or not?" Garrett griped impatiently. 

"Of course I do! Come on in!" 

"Thanks!" Gwenevere beamed. 

Motioning the two inside, Basso turned to Gwenevere and smiled. 

"Shut the door sweetheart." 

Gwenevere did as she was bade, while Basso fell to his knees with a grunt before his unkempt bed. Garrett stepped closer, watching with a perplexed expression on his face, as the boxman proceeded to begin pulling out several dusty and filthy objects. A moldy old dinner plate. Yellowed newspaper from years past. A pair of trousers that couldn't possibly fit anymore. 

"Basso, what the taff are you up to?" Garrett finally just asked. 

But the disordered pauper didn't answer, nor did he have to. Moments later, several different pairs of women's clothing began to emerge from the rancid crevice. 

The thief's face stretched into a visage of abject bewilderment. There must have been ten different outfits thus far; and it was evident that Basso was just getting started. Most of them were brightly colored, some newer than others. Almost all of them appeared rather risqué, tight, or torn. Garrett looked back over at Gwenevere again. More specifically, her bright blue get-up. 

It was then, when Garrett came to that most nauseous revelation as to just where these odd garments had come from. 

"What do they wear back home when you're done with them?" the hooded criminal asked with a wry smirk. 

"Huh?" Basso looked up so quickly, that he nearly bopped his head upon the side of the bed. He looked down at the pile of mis-matched clothing, and chuckled a bit, realizing what his old friend had meant. "Oh, I usually just offer em' a pair of mine. One of my shirts is usually all it takes to cover--"

"--thanks for the unwanted mental imagery, Basso," Garrett objected. Though he would never outright admit to it, the thief was secretly miffed by just how many girls the dirty old drunk apparently had been with. Basso stared down at his impressive collection, mulling over it for several moments. 

"I think I had something dark around here somewhere..." he murmured. 

"Basso, again I'll ask you," Garrett cleared his throat as he watched the boxman's upper half disappear beneath the bed. "What are you doing? Do you honestly mean for the girl to wear--"

"--GOT IT!" Basso bellowed, wriggling out from beneath the bed. There was a dark blue woman's tunic clasped within his chubby digits. 

"Are you serious?" Garrett made a noticeable face. "That thing's almost as big as you are! It won't possibly fit her weedy little frame!"

Basso scowled up at his mate, staring him down for a few uncomfortable seconds. 

"That's what belts are for, Garrett," he mused. Then, he handed the garment over to Gwenevere.  "Here ya go kiddo," he smiled. 

With wide eyes and eager hands, Gwenevere accepted the very first present she'd ever received in over ten years. Her fingers traced the seams and rips, seeing nothing but beauty as she held the tunic up in front of her face. Her cheeks reddened with elation, a wide and blissful smile stretching across her face. 

"Wow! Gee, thank you Basso..." was all she could manage in her all-encompassing elation.

"Heh, sure kid. Ya might wanna wash it first though," the boxman replied with a chuckle. Turning back to Garrett, he held out his arm. "Here, help me up." 

With an audible sigh and a loud creak, the lanky man pried his overweight companion to his feet. While Gwenevere continued to dance and spin about with her new outfit, Garrett and Basso watched on with unexpected astonishment. 

"Who woulda thought that a rich gal like her would get so excited over a ratty old hand-me-down?" Basso spoke first, placing his hands on his hips. "Guess it's true what they say: Give a kid a present and they'll go nuts over the box and wrapping paper instead."

"Look, Basso. I really don't have time to play dress-up," Garrett groused. The boxman turned and looked at him, raising an eyebrow in the process. 

"Isn't that exactly why you came here?"

"We've got trouble Basso. Bounty Hunters," the thief's face grew dark. "I saw a pair of them exiting the tavern just now. And they're after Gwenevere."

Basso's plump face sagged at the dismal moonlighter's announcement. 

"Well shit..." he rubbed his temples, and continued to watch Gwenevere frolic. "Taffin' fools. Mark my words--Lord Simmons ain't gonna play straight with em', that's fer sure."

"That's why we're not turning her in," Garrett uttered a dry chuckle. His companion glared up at him.

"Speak fer yourself, you heartless bastard..." he muttered. Garrett met Basso's disgusted expression with a blank stare. 

"Watch it," he growled.

"Look, we'll find a way outta this mess. We always do, Garrett," Basso assured. "Fer now, just keep the gal up in the tower, got it? There should be plenty of training she can do up in there. Gears, beams, shadows? Don't see what more ya could ask for, really."

"You wouldn't," the thief snorted. "Tell me again why we're doing all this for her?"

"Because I've gone soft, and you're a schmuck for the shiny stuff," Basso chuckled.

Garrett, didn't attempt to contend with that statement. It was perhaps, one of the brightest, cognizant sentences Basso had uttered in quite a while. But even if he'd been of the mindset to disagree with the latter half of that remark, the thief never received the opportunity. Because a series of quick knocks upon the hovel door jarred Garrett from his lazy passivity.

"Hello, Basso! Am I too late for tea then?" a thick accent Garrett couldn't quite identify called from the other side. It reminded him a bit of cockney, but there was something almost dignified and robust blended in there as well. 

"Oh goodie! He's here!" Basso clapped his hands. The reclusive hood shot his fence a bewildered look.

"Are you expecting visitors?" Garrett asked, a touch paranoid. "And when did you start drinking tea?"

"Well uh, actually, yes. Yes I am," Basso nodded, ignoring the latter half of the thief's inquiry. "This may come as a complete shock to you, Garrett--but you ain't the only taffer I do business with!"

"Have I not been fetching enough trinkets for you, Basso?" the thief crossed his arms, taking minor umbrage at the remark.

"Aw, Garrett. I didn't mean ta hurt yer feelings or nothing--but I got a business to run here! I can't be reliant on just one guy, ya know?"

"First off, ya didn't. Secondly, I don't care," Garrett snorted.

"Oh, okay. Because it sure seemed like ya did a second ago..." Basso acquired a smug, rather silly grin. 

"Basso? Oh Basso?" the stranger's voice came again.

"I'll be right there, Jack!" Basso hollered back. Turning around, he looked Gwenevere up and down. "Erm..." 

"What is it?" Garrett asked, eager to just get out of there by this point. 

"Garrett. Could you maybe let the little lady borrow your cloak? We don't need people recognizing her, now that we know they're lookin'. Know what I mean?" the boxman expressed. 

With a drawn-out, reluctant sigh, Garrett removed his trademark cloak from his shoulders. 

"Bring your own next time," he scolded her. 

The girl nodded, as she affixed the deep black hood up over her head, allowing the remaining material to taper down her body. Basso stepped back, nodding in approval. 

"Yeah, that'll do. Just keep your face hidden, and let uncle Basso, do all the talking," the shady man grinned. 

"Do we have to be here for this?" Garrett grumbled. "Can't we just hide in the back?" 

Basso pointed a dirty finger, giving the thief a stern look. 

"Now you listen here! I ain't about ta be rude to Jack Danger. I need him. Besides, ya gotta meet this guy, Garrett!"

"Why are you acting like this, Basso?" Garrett blinked.

"Aw, Garrett! You should really take a lesson from Gwennie here: Be nice and have some fun for a change!" 

"Aww," Gwenevere blushed.

"Ya look great kiddo!" Basso complimented, nudging her cheek with his fist. "Now, listen ta Uncle Basso, alright?"

"Uncle Basso?" Garrett crooked an eyebrow. "Tch, she's really gonna be calling you that?"

"Shaddup Garrett!" the boxman snapped. Clutching Gwenevere by the shoulders, Basso made eye contact with the eager young thief-in-training. "Now listen here, kid: I need ya to remain silent, no matter what! Today, yer my cousin's mute daughter, Bethany. That's what we'll tell him! Trust me, yer gonna love this guy!"

Garrett brought his uncovered head down against the rear wall of the hovel, repeating the process a few times in his exasperation. 

As Basso started to waddle back towards the front door, a soft tug found the end of his malachite scarf. The unkempt fence looked down to see Gwenevere, her expression sympathetic.

"What's the matter, girly?" he asked.

"Um, Basso? Do you really have a mute...does your cousin really have a mute daughter?" she asked, not a shred of humor apparent within her tender features. 

Basso ruffled her bangs for a bit, and grinned. The level of concern and gullibility Gwenevere possessed never ceased to warm his ragged old heart.

"Aw, no worries, sweetheart. I don't really have a vocally challenged relative. But what Mr. Danger don't know won't kill him!" the boxman replied with a swift wink.


	9. Jack Danger

The lock clicked open, and in walked a quite odd man indeed. Although he was much taller than both of the prestigious criminals within the establishment, height was by far his least curious feature. Wide, pensive hawk eyes leered outward past a face riddled with scars and facial hair. Amidst the scraggly and neglected stubble which clung haphazardly to his square jaw, was a rather impressive amber goatee. A thin, well groomed moustache sat proudly atop the man's lip, his beak-like nose perched above the smooth fibers. 

Atop his head, was a dark brown fedora, accented by a small feather, a strange key, and what appeared to be several animal fangs. The rest of the man's apparel was far from unexceptional. Loose tan slacks, a thick aviator's coat of matching shade, and a pair of handsome sienna gloves with heavy combat boots to match. With a click of his tongue, the man banged said boots together and saluted the basement's three occupants with a courteous smile. 

"Well, well Basso! I didn't know we were expecting company!" he began again in that odd accent Garrett couldn't quite place. "Jack Danger, at yer service!" 

Bowing, the man stepped forward and kicked the door closed behind him. Basso's eyes grew as large and lustrous as two moons, his jaw gaping in exasperation. Clapping his hands together, the boxman slunk down to his knees. Garrett squinted at the perplexity of it all. He couldn't make sense of why Basso had suddenly reverted to the mindset of an easily-impressed apebeast. His old associate had always been at least as intelligent as the average drunken bluecoat. After being hit in the head with a blackjack several times. 

"Oh Jack! You're here!" the bearded pauper whimpered in awestruck wonder. "I-I'll go fetch yer tea!"

"Sounds like a jolly good plan, me old bucko!" Jack Danger belted out a rapturous chortle. "Cream and sugar, if ya please."

"Oh, oh yes Jack! Anything you want, Jack!" Basso nodded like an idiot, before scurrying off into the back room. Garrett watched as he nearly tripped himself in the process. 

Releasing a loud sigh, the thief chanced a peek at Gwenevere. As per Basso's instruction, she was keeping that trap of hers shut. But for how long, the indignant moonlighter couldn't say. Jack took notice of the hooded criminal's not-so-subtle protest to the situation, tipping his hat in Garrett's direction with another superlative grin.

"'Ello, 'ello! An' just who might you be then?" the extrinsic bloke asked. Before Garrett could bother to answer--let alone care--Jack pointed a finger at him, a look of surprise overtaking his tawny features. "Wait...I've seen yer mug in the papers, I have! Yer the one they call Garrett: Master Thief!"

"Yep, that's me. Who the taff are you?" Garrett remarked dryly, giving Jack little more than a nonchalant shrug. 

Basso reappeared from the back room, carrying a tray of tea and cakes. Garrett couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at what he was wearing. Throughout the years, the master criminal had witnessed his bumbling companion don all manner of ridiculous displays. But this one, would be difficult to top. The lacy apron certainly wasn't helping anything. 

"Why Garrett! Shame on you!" Basso scolded, shaking a teaspoon at him. 

"Shame on me?" Garrett smirked. "I'm not the one wearing an apron. Whose is that anyway, Sophie's?"

The thief's smug grin only continued to lengthen, as Basso flushed an angry beet red. 

"Go ahead! Laugh yourself right off!" he snorted. "At least I know how to be sociable in the presence of greatness!" 

"Who, this guy?" Garrett asked, choosing to ignore Basso's tomfoolery. Again, Jack exhibited an overly-dramatic bow. 

"Why, I'm Jack Danger! Thought I already mentioned that, hmmm..." he held his head up in contemplation, stroking his goatee.

"And...so who is he?" Garrett leaned closer to Basso. "And why exactly do you care?"

"Only the bravest, most masculine explorer ever, Garrett!" Basso reverently whispered, gawking wide-eyed at Jack. "Ain't that reason enough?"

"They say hero worship is a sign of a weak mind, Basso," Garrett muttered. "Though coming from you, I'm not exactly surprised..." 

He smirked at his own remark, then glanced at Gwenevere. It was more of a suspicious inspection, than any courtesy. With a girl like that, even Garrett knew he'd best keep a constant eye on her. To his relief, she hadn't moved since that barrel-chested beefhead had entered the basement. To be frank, he was surprised that Jack hadn't even noticed her yet. Perhaps the girl was learning a thing or two from him after all.

Gwenevere smiled beneath the confines of her mentor's stuffy cloak. It smelled of old wood and smoke, from both pipe and chimney. She glanced outward at Garrett to find him watching her through that gyrating green eye of his. Due to the dim confines of Basso's home, she could not tell if the thief's expression was agitated, or just bored. Humans were usually so expressive, but it had always been hard to tell what that one was thinking at any given moment. 

Turning her eyes upward, she noticed the slightest hint of movement from atop the gaudy adventurer's beige leather jacket. Try as she had, Gwenevere failed to contain the delighted squeal that left her lips when she realized what it was. A curious lemur shifted, its ringed tail brushing against Jack's neck as it turned to meet the girl creature's trill with its dazzling yellow eyes. 

Even those who had been made to endure the invalidation of their spirits via domestication, never failed to recognize her. The heart always remembers what the mind cannot. And as the primate trailed down its captor's arm, closer towards the girlish sprite and her fascinated stare, Ophelia the lemur knew exactly what sort of being now beckoned to her with a fragile, outstretched hand. She sniffed the girl's trembling extremity, before nudging her wooly head up and between Gwenevere's thin fingers. Jack heard his pet croon and purr, prompting him to turn around. Both Garrett and Basso simultaneously froze, as the outrageous adventurer noticed their cloaked little waif. 

"Oh? And who's this then?" Jack inquired, peering into the darkness concealing Gwenevere's face. The girl quickly averted her gaze, tugging the cowl tighter around her profile. "Aw, now come on, sweetheart! There's no need to be shy!" Jack coaxed, but to no avail. After all, Gwenevere took any of the instructions given by her new underworld family, very seriously. 

Basso waddled forward, stepping between Jack and Gwenevere before the eager fortune-hunter could attempt to corral her. 

"Ah, yes! Allow me to introduce to you, my cousin's mute daughter, Bethany!" the boxman announced, adhering to his earlier plan. Garrett shook his head, rubbing his temples.

Jack Danger's lips curled upward, his expression animalistic and devious. Gwenevere gasped as the man reached out and grabbed her hand, Basso's blockade far from effective against the womanizing scoundrel. 

"Pleasure to meet you, luvvie. The name's Danger. Jack Danger. Peril's a close friend of mine, so if you're ever in trouble, ya know who ta call. I'll work out the kinks," he winked. "Looks like my sweet Ophelia likes you!" 

Gwenevere's insides writhed like dying eels, as she tried to retract her extremity from the strange man and his hungry lips. Each kiss felt like a violation, as though he were stripping away her safety. Yet, due to the promise she'd made Basso, the girl couldn't do much about it. She turned and looked at Garrett again. Somehow, the sight of his disheveled frown brought her comfort. Although his scorn seemed rather striking in that moment. Intense, and wicked.

Garrett seethed as he watched Jack continue to caress his apprentice's arm. The entire scene was sickening, untoward and completely unprofessional. Although Basso spoke highly of Jack, revered him as some great hero, the thief had yet to see any evidence of this for himself. At the time, Garrett credited the flamboyant gentleman's lack of propriety conducive to why he loathed him. But he would later discover, that this was far from the truth. 

Perhaps those inexplicable, conflicting emotions were what urged the reticent moonlighter to inquire about the strange pet; a topic which Garrett would have normally taken no interest in. Anything to end this uncomfortable stalemate. To get out of Basso's hovel quicker.

"So Jack. You a fan of Willy Shakensphere then?" the thief asked. 

Jack finally released Gwenevere's hand, much to her relief. Ophelia took this opportunity to clamber down from her owner's arm, and onto Gwenevere's. The girl proceeded to cuddle and stroke the lemur, as Jack faced Garrett.

"Oh no, I prefer mine stirred!" the explorer smiled. "Anyway mate, I've just had meself a cuppa coffee, so I'll take a rain check if ya don't mind!" 

Garrett blinked. It took every ounce of inner strength and self-mastery to keep his jaw from flopping open in abject exasperation.  
"Shakensphere, was a famous author. 'A Midwinter's Daytime Nightmare', that Hammerite/Pagan romance everyone seems so enamored with?" Garrett explained. Jack acquired a clueless expression, and blinked. "Ian Cribs even ripped off the idea for that last one with his flop of a play, 'Reginald and Conandra Forest Princess'."

"Really now?" Jack smirked. "I had no idea."

"None of this is ringing a bell for you, huh?"

"'Fraid not, mate. Why'd you even ask about any of that tosh?" the explorer chuckled. Garrett bristled at that.

"Because, I couldn't help but notice that your pet lemur has a rather interesting name. Ophelia was the name of a character in another of his famous tales," he groused.

"Naw, she was named after me first wife she was," Jack replied, still laughing. "I never learned to read. It's a complete waste of time when there's so much adventure to be had!"

And in that moment, Garrett acquired another reason to despise Mr. Danger. 

Basso gasped, stepping away from Gwenevere and out in front of Jack again. 

"Ooh! Ooh! Hey Jack! I've got a black and white pet, too!" Basso interrupted, gesturing to his magpie with both hands. Jack Danger stepped away from the agitated Garrett, snuffing out his cigar in the process. He leaned before Jenivere's perch, scrutinizing the bird with a critical sneer.

"Oi, yeah, she's quite a beaut!" he nodded, cigar still clenched tightly between his immaculate white teeth. "Circa, 1552, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh no, she was hatched just under six years ago, Jack," Basso corrected with a grin.

"I was referrin' to the discovery of the common magpie, good mate," Jack replied, shooting the boxman a perspicuous glare. 

"Oh! Oh yes, I knew that!" Basso boomed with laughter, hoping that his gleeful antics would mask his overwhelming embarrassment. But his rosy cheeks betrayed his bluff. When it was evident from both Garrett's sneers, and Jack's complete lack of interest, the boxman decided to change the subject. 

"Y-ya know, I named my pet after my ex-wife too!" Basso added, shoving his hands deeply into his coat pockets. "I always try my best to follow the way of Jack Danger, after all!"

Garrett rolled his eyes, and groaned again. He'd had just about all he could take of Basso's newest brand of outlandish behavior. While the distracted explorer continued to examine Jenivere, Garrett tugged Basso aside with unexpected force. Gwenevere, was far too preoccupied with Ophelia to even take notice.

"Basso, quit acting like a lunatic already. You're making a bigger ass of yourself than usual," Garrett growled in a low, gravelly voice. 

The boxman raised an eyebrow, clearly offended. 

"Aw, come on now Garrett! No need to be jealous!"

"Yeah, jealous," the thief scoffed "You and Perilous Jackass over there should just go shack up in a Molly House already."

"WHAT?! How DARE you for even suggestin' that, ya senseless taffer!" Basso shouted, startling both Gwenevere and Jack in the process. 

"Everything alright, Basso? Your tea is getting cold," the curious pathfinder called from the other side of the hovel.

"Be there in a moment, Jack!" Basso replied, flustered. Turning back to Garrett, he lowered his voice. "Why on earth would you even ASSUME that Jack and I are..."

"Well that's just how it's starting to look from here. I've seen you ogle bar wenches less than you do that guy!"

"I don't swing that way Garrett, and you know it! I don't wanna sleep with Jack! I just wants to sleep with the types of gals Jack does! What's the harm in following a template, eh mate?"

"Basso. There's following a template, and then there's tracing the template until the template's worn through."

"Eh, please yerself," Basso waved him off, shaking his head. Turning back to the dashing gentleman, the boxman's eyes began to twinkle. Sauntering back over to Jack, Basso offered the man a second cup of tea and a slice of cake. The boxman continued to watch through livid eyes, as his guest began to partake of the delicious refreshments.

"Wonderful, I say! Simply wonderful," Jack complimented, passing his lemur a tiny bit of crust. "Do I detect a hint of Chamomile?"

"Nothing but the best for you, Jack," Basso puffed out his chest with pride. Then, just as quickly, he grew rigid again. Eyes as meek and hopeful as a young lad's, the boxman twiddled his fingers. "H-hey Mr. Danger? Tell us all about one of your many daring adventures."

"Oh? But do we have the time?" Jack took a sip of his tea. "I do have somewhere to be, Basso. Once our business is concluded, hmm?"

"Aw come on, Jack!" Basso persisted in a rather shameful display of kneeling and clapping his hands together. "It isn't every day I have so many guests and all. Pleeeeease?!" 

Garrett gazed upon the remains of a once-respected member of the underworld; now little more than a slobbering, headsick buffoon. Sometimes, it truly was tragic to be reminded of just how far Basso the Boxman had fallen from glory. But then again, Basso had chosen to deviate from such shadowy renown years ago, and although Garrett had always disapproved, there was naught to be done about it. The thief sighed, and shook his head. 

Basso, you're so pathetic, he thought.

Jack smiled a little at the entire situation, his green eyes glinting amidst the struggling flames of an oil lamp, as they clung to life within the recesses of that dreary place. 

"Well now, I don't see why not!" he looked directly at Gwenevere, and winked. "After all, what kind of debonair adventurer would I be, if I didn't tantalize the lady's eardrums with tales of my heroism?"

A sensible one, Garrett thought.

Taking a seat in Basso's chair, Jack propped his feet up on the desk. Bits of mud and gravel soiled the newspaper the boxman had been reading prior, but Basso didn't seem to care. His brown eyes were glazed, his posture slumped forward in surreal admiration, as his personal hero began to speak.

"Now, are any of you familiar with the dreaded wolly-woggen?" the explorer asked, his accent thick with the captivating enticement of which only a master storyteller could ever possess. 

"Why no, Jack," Basso was, of course, the first to respond. "What the taff IS a wolly-woggen?!"

"A made-up creature, obviously," Garrett intruded with a dry laugh. Both Jack and Basso shot him an incredulous, vehement stare. 

"Garrett! How could you say such a thing?!"

"What, the truth?" the thief shrugged. Basso was livid.

"How the taff would you even know?! Jack's a world-famous adventurer! He's been around the world countless times! To my knowledge, you've never even set foot outside the City!" 

"That's more or less true," Garrett admitted, "I mean, it's not as though I was personally trained by some of the greatest minds in the land, and practically grew up around books for my primary entertainment source."

The cynical moonlighter's words, were all but lost upon the current company he found himself amidst. 

"There ya go again mate, about them books!" Jack sneered. Pointing to the ivory canines lining his fedora, he continued with, "if wolly-woggens ain't real, then where did I get these?!"

Garrett sat in silence for several seconds, staring up at the gleaming fangs as they mocked him from across the room. For a moment, he appeared defeated. Jack shot Basso a smug grin, then nodded. But striking when his enemy least expected it, had always been one of Garrett's strong points. 

"Some filthy alley, most like. Those are dog's teeth," the thief smirked. 

Instantly, the adventurer recoiled, his frown deep against the backdrop of shadows lining his face. Basso grumbled something under his breath, before storming over to Garrett.

"Oh Garrett! Why must you doubt such a brave man as Jack Danger?" he demanded. "Why are you so against immersing yourself in his wisdom?"

The thief's bold expression shattered, and in its place, bloomed forth the unspeakable visage of incredulous ire. 

"His wisdom?! Okay. I'm done," Garrett threw up his arms, and started back across the room towards Gwenevere. The girl was still playing with Danger's lemur. Basso leapt back.

"What?! Garrett, no! Wait!" he hollered, the amount of sheer desperation within his words pitiful. The hooded man looked over his shoulder only once, before grabbing up his apprentice by the arm. 

"We're leaving Basso."

Garrett proceeded to pull Gwenevere forward, much to the hisses and protests of her new friend. Noticing this, Jack rocketed out of his seat, and stormed over to the agitated criminal. 

"Woah there! Easy, mate! Ya can't go draggin' around a lady like that!" he reprimanded, blocking Garrett's exit. A terrible mistake. The thief leered up at him, with eyes like that of a fearsome killer.

"Just watch me..." he snarled under his breath. 

Jack, was unimpressed. After all, Garrett was a good foot shorter than he. His stern frown softened, and without a moment's hesitation, the explorer clasped the thief's shoulder. Garrett recoiled with a violent jerk, the speed of his reflexes most unsettling to the unsuspecting 'hero'.

"Touch me again, and you better hope those skills of yours are real..." Garrett warned in a guttural tone.

"Easy there, mate," Jack ushered the bristling moonlighter to stand down. "I just wanna talk, a'right?"

"There's nothing to talk about," Garrett hissed. "And I'm not your mate..."

"Eh, all in good time," Danger chuckled. "Now, listen up--because you might be just the sort of bloke I'm looking for to complete a difficult task."

"Not interested," the thief refused, pushing his way past the man. Jack scowled as he did so, and that's when Basso noticed the silver key shimmering from its clip upon the adventurer's hat. 

"Hey! That's new!" 

Jack turned and smiled at the boxman, unfastening the key from his headwear. 

"Oh yes! Well, that's just what I wanted to talk to Garrett about. You see, this key unlocks the old McFrier Estate."

"Wasn't that the place where those nobles were murdered under mysterious circumstances?" Basso's eyes widened as he spoke. Jack nodded. 

"Correct. Yet, even still, it is rumored that the culprits didn't make off with the bounty secured in the large family safe. Those amateurs simply didn't have the skills required to bust such a sticky wicket of a combination," glancing back down at Garrett, the sly explorer grinned.  "But I know who does..."

"Yeah! That's a great idea, Jack!" Basso clapped. "Garrett will do it!"

"What?!" the thief raised his voice in conspicuous disapproval. "Aren't you called the boxman for a reason, Basso? You do it--I already refused."

"I know, but this is different," Basso whined. 

"How so?"

"Well...i-it just is, see?" the boxman harrumphed. Garrett rolled his eyes.

"It's too damn risky, and you know it," the thief condescended. "And if even you can smell the rat here, then it would take a complete neophyte to get tangled up in this mess..." 

At this point, Jack intervened. He stepped between the two arguing men, and clicked his tongue. His lemur trilled, then jumped out of Gwenevere's arms and back onto her master's shoulders. Using her tiny fingers, Ophillia fetched the winking key from the adventurer's fedora, and clambered back down Jack's arm. She handed the key to Garrett, looking up at him with her intense yellow eyes. The master thief merely sneered at what others might have considered a charming gesture.

"Well go on," Jack encouraged with a wave of his hand. "Take it. In case ya change yer mind."

Garrett stared at the man, swiped the key from the lively primate, and let it fall to the dirt floor with a melodramatic twist of his hand. The thief's bi-colored stare intensified, as it fixated upon the egotistical lady-killer with the bad moustache. 

"Listen up, Jack: I'm. Not. Interested," Garrett clarified. Basso huffed again.

"Garrett! Why in the heck do you have to be a taffin' jerk at a time like this?!"

"Like this?" Garrett mused. "Now come on Basso. You know me better than that."

"Aye. Though I sometimes wish I didn't..."

Basso shoved his cold hands deep into the pockets of his lacy pink apron, and signed. Beneath the confines of her borrowed cover, Gwenevere's eyes watched with feline curiosity as the silver key glinted and teased beyond her reach. She tried to resist, but something about that small object enraptured her fanciful mind. Garrett's attention was triggered, as she bent down to retrieve it. 

"GWEN--" he caught himself, albeit barely. But it was already far too late. 

Gwenevere froze, looking up at her hoodless mentor. She hesitated for only a moment, his fierce gaze holding her like a hunter facing down a spellbound deer. But like those agile, ruminant mammals of the deep woodsie, her instincts eventually overcame blind fear and obedience. With a worrying, unnatural swiftness, her tiny hands swept up the key. 

Jack crooked an eyebrow at that, and faced Basso. The boxman turned beet red, a stupid, toothy grin taking form across his face. Then, he shot Garrett a murderous glare.

"I thought you said her name was Bethany..." the explorer crossed his arms. 

"Oh, uh...it is!" Basso mended, rather clumsily. "Bethany, Gwen Grubbs!"

"Interesting..." Jack twirled his moustache. "Well now, Garrett. Even if you have no sense of greed or adventure left within your rusted bones, Basso's second cousin sure seems bloody well interested!"

"She is! She is!" Basso nodded vigorously. 

"No she isn't..." Garrett intercepted. Basso sent a poisonous scowl in his direction.

"Yes! Bethany can do it! She's a thief in training, she is! Garrett here's her teacher!" Basso continued to oversell Gwenevere's talents, and Garrett continued to ask himself why. 

"Is that so?" Jack put his hands on his hips. "Well then, best of luck to you, young Bethany! I sincerely hope you're successful in carrying out this little feat. Why, with Basso and Garrett by your side, no doubt that we'll all be rich as kings by Christmas!"

Don't count on it... Garrett shook his head. He watched as Jack banged his boots together again, before saluting the three of them.

"Well, time is short and I really must fly. Basso! Keep me updated on young Bethany's progress! I've got a bottle of chardonnay with her name on it once that lock is sprung!"

"Will do, Jack!" Basso saluted back. It was a clumsy, nonsensical display to say the least. "I'll keep ya updated on all the details!"

"Jolly good," the advantageous vagabond clapped. 

Ophillia took this opportunity to scurry down from his shoulders again, practically careening herself back into Gwenevere's unsuspecting arms. Jack laughed. 

"It looks as though my feisty Ophillia really has taken a right shining to ya, young Bethany," he noted. Gwenevere said nothing, nodding instead to validate Danger's theory. Garrett scowled down at her. 

"Come on...Bethany. It's time to go," he ordered. 

Again, silence permeated the air in place of the girl's strident voice. Gwenevere nodded again, and hugged the playful creature goodbye. But Opillia, was far from satisfied with that. The adoring creature had just made a new friend, after all. And she did not want their fun to end so abruptly. 

As Gwenevere proceeded to urge the lemur back onto Jack's awaiting arm, Ophillia turned and bounded away. Her limber little hands caught the side of Gwenevere's hood in the process of the creature's daring escape, bringing it down against the back of her neck. Basso gasped, as he watched Danger's expression grow pallid. 

Gwenevere's exposed face flushed a deep pink, her reaction and demeanor akin to a woman who'd just lost a great deal more coverage. Garrett reacted immediately, forsaking the initial shock which had so easily claimed his chubby companion. He pushed his way past Jack and Basso, grabbed Gwenevere by her right arm and shoulder, and began ushering the flustered girl out through the back door of the hovel. 

Somehow, this course of action shook the boxman from his stupor. Joining the thief, Basso wrapped one hand around Gwenevere, and flung open the back door with the other. Jack watched on in astonishment, his lemur trilling with glee against his earlobe. 

"I say! Your second cousin looks a great deal like Lord Simmons's missing daughter!" he pointed, mouth agape. 

"No she doesn't!" Basso sputtered hastily, slamming the back door once Garrett and his mild-mannered apprentice had exited the establishment. 

Turning back to his hero, the boxman gave him another of his infamous silly grins. 

"Now, about them tea cakes. They ain't gonna finish themselves, ya know!"

***

THE CLOCKTOWER:  
LATER THAT EVENING:

Once back within the protective walls of his sanctum, Garrett began the undesirable act of training Gwenevere. He stood in a corner, watching as the girl tried--and failed--at the most basic instruction. He'd lost count of how many times she'd fallen, during the course of that windy night. 

Glancing outward over the blustery world below, the thief wondered how long it would be until snowfall. That was always a cause for consideration in his line of work. Bad weather was dangerous to those who ran along rooftops, or those who kept to high places in general, the way he did. The way she was going to--if she could ever manage to keep both feet on the ground. 

"No, no," he shook his head, pipe smoke encircling his face before wafting out the tower window. "Keep your feet flat, and your back straight."

Gwenevere looked up at him, still wobbling a bit atop the discarded beam. Standing on one leg, was harder than she expected it to be. Garrett took another puff of his pipe, exhaling through his teeth as he glared at her. It wouldn't be long now. It never was.  
Another howling gale violated the tower, causing the preoccupied girl to startle. Gwenevere wailed as she lost her balance yet again, and fell. Garrett released a frustrated sigh, and stared down at the pile of blue and red at his feet. The girl's eyes met his, though they were full of shame rather than glee that night. 

"Gwenevere," the thief began, meeting her gaze. "I don't say this lightly, but you have got to be the most clumsy person I've ever had the misfortune of knowing."

The girl's shame was replaced by bitter ire; a biting misery concealed within those vibrant eyes, as she continued to meet his pensive gaze. It was aggravating for her, to be trying so hard and yet never being applauded for thus. Instead, her mentor would only scold. How was anyone supposed to learn a thing from such a discouraging method?

"I'm doing my best over here!" she cried, her red bangs dangling messily into her eyes. "It took me five minutes to fall that time!"

"Amazing," Garrett groused, taking another puff from his pipe. He blew the excess smoke into Gwenevere's face. "Do you know how long it takes me to lose my balance?"

"No," Gwenevere coughed, her face flooded with contempt.

"Neither do I. Because it's never happened before," the thief boasted. Gwenevere jolted to her feet, her temper flaring.

"It's not fair of you to make such a comparison, ya know?! You're a master thief, and I'm still learning!" she argued. 

A part of Garrett urged him to scold her for that insolent tongue, but his dry wit won the battle for domination that round. 

"Well I don't know--it takes some real skill to trip over flat surfaces like that..." he berated with a smug grin. Gwenevere muttered something under her breath, and crossed her arms. 

"It wouldn't kill you to be nice once in a while, would it?"

"Probably not. But what would be the point?" Garrett retorted. 

"People might like you more," the naïve girl shrugged. The thief released another puff of smoke, along with a gravelly chortle.

"I'm a thief, Gwenevere. I don't particularly care if I'm liked or not."

Gwenevere pondered those words for a moment, before finding a slight blemish in the rogue's otherwise sound reasoning. 

"But Basso's a thief too, and you're usually really mean to him!" she challenged. 

"Basso brings that on himself," Garrett frowned. "You see the sort of company he keeps. Like that Prick Peril, or whatever his name was."

"Jack Danger," Gwenevere corrected, completely missing the intended insult. Garrett stared vehemently down at her.

"Yeah. Him," he took another inhalation. "Which reminds me--what were you doing playing with his filthy pet like that anyway?"

"Ophillia was NOT filthy, Garrett!" Gwenevere shouted, balling her fingers into a tight fist. "She was sweet, and friendly, and cute!"

"Uh-huh. And I'll bet Dangerous Jackass felt the same way about you..." the thief quipped. "You know, for a noble, you have some really weird interests."

"For a thief, you're not very honorable," Gwenevere retorted. Her words nearly caused Garrett to choke on his own pipe.

"What the hell?! Who in the world told you that thieves were an honorable lot?!" he demanded.

"Basso," the girl remarked proudly, her eyes closed in satisfaction. Garrett burst out laughing. 

"And you actually believed him?!" 

Gwenevere's face turned beet red, her cheeks inflating with hot air. 

"Hey! What's so funny?!"

"Anyone who takes Basso seriously, deserves to be laughed at. You've met the guy."

"Yes, and he's a very nice guy!" Gwenevere defended. The thief's smile crumbled. 

"Whatever," he groused. "I suppose it takes a fool to appreciate a fool."

Gwenevere turned up her nose, pretending she didn't hear her mentor's latest insult. She cleared her throat, and cracked her knuckles.

"So, what's the deal with Jack Danger anyway? Why does Basso like him so much?" she asked, changing the subject. Garrett rolled his eyes.

"Damned if I know. Judging from that accent, I'd say he must be from Umberstorm Island."

"Umberstorm Island?" the girl repeated, curious. Garrett continued to enjoy his pipe, looking out over the nocturnal world below.

"Way back when, the baron's ancestors decreed that all dangerous criminals be rounded up like cattle, and shipped to some distant island in the south seas. This Jack Danger character, must me one of their decedents," he explained.

"I see...is that why Basso says he's a world traveler? Does Jack Danger have a boat or something?"

"I don't know, Gwenevere," Garrett groaned, rubbing his temples. "He had that lemur with him, and those things aren't exactly native to either the City or Umberstorm. He must have ventured somewhere abroad to obtain the fleabag, though I highly doubt he's as well-travelled as he claims," the moonlighter snorted, recalling the dashing womanizer's boasts at wrestling a 'wolly-woggen'.

The girl dusted herself off, and sauntered over to where her new outfit was drying. Soap suds and water still covered the floor from where she had done a rather sloppy job of scrubbing the ensemble. It now hung limp, the deep purple material reminding her of nocturnal heather growing beside the river. She plucked the damp tunic off of the extended beam, and gave it a sniff. Aside from a hint of what was once a very pungent perfume, the object smelled quite fresh and clean now. 

As she continued to tend to the cloth, it occurred to Gwenevere that both Basso and Garrett dressed in considerably darker materials than she did, and with little to no attention to fashion or flair. An innocent Gwenevere wondered why this was. Perhaps, it had to do with the rather unscrupulous work they did. Or perhaps, it was something else entirely. The renegade princess, really couldn't say for certain. 

"I think it'll work, if I just do as Basso said and belt it in a bit," Gwenevere looked over her shoulder at Garrett, still holding up the dark tunic. The thief scoffed.

"You're not actually gonna wear that, are you? It probably came from the fattest, most unattractive brod you can imagine."

"What does that matter?" Gwenevere cocked her head, turning back to face her new garment. "Why do you feel it necessary to judge everyone so harshly anyway, Garrett?"

"What's it to you?"

"Well, I was just curious is all. And anyway, even if Jack was lying about all the places he's been, I thought what he said to me was very nice," the girl commented. "Everyone has faults and flaws, ya know? Even if he is a pathological liar, he could still be a really nice man!"

"You realize he just wants to taff you, right?" Garrett raised an eyebrow at her, watching as the innocent girl's face contorted with mortified disgust. 

"I-is that why he was kissing my arm like that?!" she gasped.

"Let me think. Uh, yeah," the thief put out his pipe. "Why else would he bother with you? Unless he's lost his mind, that is. He did seem to think that you could open that safe..."

"Maybe I can!" the girl bit back.

"No, ya can't," the hooded criminal replied artlessly. "You can't sneak. You can't spring a lock. You can barely go two minutes without making some sort of annoying sound."

Gwenevere watched the gleaming orange embers of Garrett's pipe, as he set the object down upon the window ledge. The deadly fangs she kept hidden behind soft lips and the illusion of human teeth, began to grind together. She was furious by this point. Garrett wasn't giving her so much as a chance.

"You know, you're a terrible teacher if you give up on your student so easily!" she accused.

"We've already been through this, Gwenevere," Garrett shook his head. "You're not my student. You're a job."

"Well, coming from where you stand, isn't that even worse?" the green-eyed pixie countered. The thief glowered at her.

"What are you implying, exactly?" his tone deepened a bit.

"You take your jobs so very seriously, or at least you used to..." Gwenevere began, feeling timid as the words left her mouth. "Would you give up on a job that wasn't me?"

There was a challenging quality to her words, one that caused the usually confident Garrett to hesitate. He stared at her through the shadows of the tower, watching as the moonlight cast dismal shades of icy blue across her pale features. It was almost eerie. Licking the back of his teeth, he pondered her question for several seconds before attempting an answer. 

Although he would never outwardly admit it, he knew Gwenevere had a good point. Garrett had never given up on a job, no matter how arduous or challenging it became. Pulsating wounds, unexpected circumstances twisted into existence by a god who despised him. Traps set by those who'd somehow caught wind of his intrusion in advance. Nothing had ever kept the master thief from his goals.

Just as he was part and parcel to peril and treachery, Garrett was also no stranger to tolerating the presence of those whom he'd rather forget existed. He had grown up around stodgy robed men who shared little of his interests and insights--to the point of openly chastising him for such behaviors. He had also lived with the Pagans for close to six months, during the events of Karras's mad dynasty. It was an unfortunate situation, to say the least. But his safehouse had been compromised, and with every Mechanist and bluecoat scouring the City for him, it was the best option the thief had at the time.

Garrett had suffered in silence, and persevered through every challenge his world had thrown at him. So how was it, that this wide-eyed damsel managed to unnerve him so? 

"No, I wouldn't," he finally answered. "And I never said that I was giving up on you, Gwenevere. Those were your own words."

"You've been saying it all along  with your actions towards me though," the runaway argued. 

Garrett turned away, releasing a furious sputter from his lips. He hated just how right she was. 

"Regardless, I'm not about to let Jeopardy Jackass consume my thoughts," he grumbled, leaning over his candlelit table. "The man's up to something--that much is obvious. And I've got a heist to plan for."

"A heist?" Gwenevere cocked her head. From beneath the folds of his reclaimed cloak, the thief grinned. His distraction, had been successful. 

"Yeah, in a week," he muttered, his words only half-cognizant.

"Ooh, can I go with you and help out?" the girl began to bound up and down.

"No." 

"Why not?" the young woman persisted. Garrett placed his hand down upon the map he'd been surveying, and glared at her. 

"I have another lesson for you tomorrow night. You can occupy your overactive mind with that." 

Gwenevere leapt back, a mixture of surprise and distress coating her features. 

"What?! Another one? B-but you just tested my stealth this evening!" she pleaded. 

"Right," Garrett nodded, "and not much has changed. In fact, you still have a very long way to go. All of my previous charges could at least keep their balance when they came to me."

"So, what exactly is your end goal?" Gwenevere asked, chewing on her hair again.

"My end goal, it to satisfy Basso, keep his money, and get my tower back."

"I meant in terms of my training," the girl clarified, tapping her foot. Garrett merely shrugged. 

"Same applies. But if you want to set your sights on something actually reachable in the coming weeks, I want you to be able to sneak up on someone and pickpocket the taffer by the end of the month."

"In just a month?!" the girl gaped at him. Garrett gave her a nonchalant look, and blinked. 

"Yes," his tone served to illustrate just how little he thought of her. "If you can't do something that simple after a month of my training, than this entire arrangement is pointless."

Gwenevere bit her bottom lip. It would be difficult, for sure. But if Garrett believed it was possible, she knew she had to try. 

"So, you're going on this new mission alone?" she asked. 

"Isn't it obvious?"

"But I don't understand. Where will I go?"

"You're staying here," the thief snapped. Gwenevere cringed at his response. 

"But Basso said--" 

"--I know what Basso said!" Garrett cut her off by slamming his fists down onto the table. "Forget it! In case you haven't noticed, I'm used to being completely alone. And spending every waking moment with a hyperactive kid like you is driving me insane!" 

Gwenevere's eyes shimmered with both fear and hurt at his verbal onslaught. 

"I see..." she mumbled. 

Sinking back down to her knees, she proceeded to crawl over to her chosen spot on the stair landing. Curling up onto her dark blue cloak, the young woman shut her eyes. Tears pricked her eyelashes, as her heart once again flooded with an uncomfortable heat.  
Why was Garrett always so eager to push her away? She just wanted to help him. After all, he had already helped her so much. 

Without his guidance, the young woman knew that she would have never known what to do, or how to get by alone within the harsh underbelly of this city. There was no argument whatsoever. Garrett, had saved her life. Was it really so wrong to want to repay such a debt? As her mentor continued his preparations, Gwenevere wiped her eyes, and tried to rest. It had been a long day; and one that she would sooner like to forget. 

As she nodded off, Garrett released a loud, frustrated sigh. He sneered, his eyes narrowing as he continued to survey the layout of Cunningham's Boutique. Tracing his thin index finger across the parchment, his lack of restraint began to concern him. He didn't usually snap like that, and it worried him to consider that Gwenevere was causing him to lose his self-control. 

He looked up, pressing his lips together as Gwenevere's inescapable question repeated itself like a constant mantra amidst his troubled thoughts:

Would you give up on a job that wasn't me?

Garrett squeezed his eyes tightly shut, a migraine beginning to take hold within the back of his skull.

"No. I wouldn't. So why does simply being around you make me so uncomfortable?"


	10. Battle Scars

Garrett ended up falling asleep at his work station that night, after carefully removing his metal prosthetic so as not to accidently crush the more delicate components. After the difficult day he'd had, the thief was hoping to enjoy a long and dreamless rest. But his slumber, was far from pleasant:

***

A storm was imminent, though not the sort Garrett was expecting as he remained hunched atop that domed rooftop, surveying the expanse of that sullen midnight sky. It was almost numbing, having her so near. He could have reached out and touched her in that moment if he'd so chosen. But like the phantasmic specters of an impossible dream, the thief feared that such an attempt would shatter the precious veil between reality and fiction. For the moment, she was there. And she was speaking to him again, though far from the way he would have preferred. 

"Have you caught your breath yet, old man?" she asked with that mischievous, uninterested smirk of hers. An expression she'd long ago acquired from her mentor, and perfected over the course of her short lifetime. Garrett glowered up at her, his bi-colored stare far from amused by her little jest. 

"I wasn't catching my breath, Erin," he sneered. "I just happened to see something down below," he explained, bobbing his head in the direction of the intricate glass skylight. His accomplice  shot him an incredulous look. 

"Riiight..." she crossed her arms. "And I have a husband and twenty-seven kids waiting for me back home."

"Don't be a smart ass," the older thief discouraged her sarcasm. Erin just rolled her eyes. 

"Come on Garrett. Basso told me you'd help out," she groused, taking a few moments more to survey the billowing smog as it snuffed out the moon. 

"Okay, first of all, yeah. And I am," he reassured her. "Second of all, take a peek down there yourself if you don't believe me." 

The thief pointed a thin and smudged index finger, encouraging the girl to peer down over the precipice of the stately manse. Erin did as she was bade, her cyan eyes narrowing as they began to make out the forms of several hooded figures below. Atop a mahogany pedestal towards the center of the room, was a silvery blue stone glinting with an almost otherworldly luster. 

"Cult activity?" Erin asked, turning back to her mentor. Garrett said nothing, as he continued to survey the suspicious gathering below with pensive eyes.

"Perhaps," he muttered, "certainly seems like the sort of layout for that."

As he had done countless times over the course of his time with Erin, Garrett was only telling half-truths. Keeping his apprentice--no, his daughter--blind to that which could potentially harm, or otherwise greatly upset her. After all, what sort of parent could possibly do less?

Consequently, he knew full well that a ritual was indeed transpiring far below his piercing glare and stiff form. There were other artifacts resting upon similar pedestals, relics which had been used in a sinister ritual fifteen years before. And as he began to recognize each of the objects involved, a trill of primitive dread traversed Garrett's spine with a sinister shock.  
A gleaming heart of ruby red, impossible luster and impressive in size. A crown of twisted and savage design, its cold silver and aquamarine adornments visible even from this high up. A golden chalice, a mummified paw. The recognition of the four relics gave the master thief pause. He wondered, if it was down there too. 

The unshakable sensation of disquieted uncertainty which ravaged his person mere seconds after, gave Garrett his answer. As he leered further still down into the darkness of that place, the hooded criminal could see it leering up at him. Silent and frozen, but watching him all the same. The Eye had promised to return to the City one day. To return for that remaining coal-brown optic which now sat mismatched alongside a venin replica. And now, it was finally here. 

But it wasn't the presence of that sentient nightmare that gave the thief pause. It was the sacrificial podium which the hooded ones now encircled. More specifically, it was the masked soul strapped down atop it. Even from his present height, Garrett could see the victim writhing and trembling within their tight bonds. The green mask they wore was intricate, frightening. It reminded the thief of Pagans, although there was something almost mocking about the peculiar design. The lost eyes which seemed to stare directly into him from that painted smiling face. It genuinely chilled him. Garrett stood from the window, clasping his ward's shoulder in the process. 

"Nope. That's it. We're not doing this."

Erin gawked up at the thief, as if he'd just revealed the impossible to her. And, in some sense of the word, he had. Garrett: The Master Thief, abandoning a job? It was beyond comprehensible for her. She had watched him take risks far greater, and come out even wealthier still. Her blue eyes darkened against the backdrop of gloomy sky and turbulent weather. 

"What?!" the word was but a breathless whisper. 

Garrett deigned to respond, having neither time nor interest for her blatant disapproval. As the thief turned around to leave, Erin jolted upright, stomping across the rooftop after him. 

"Hey!!" she hollered. That, at least gave him pause. A puff of dense mist exited the girl's dark lips, as she began to seethe. "What are you doing?!"

Garrett looked over his shoulder at her, the blustery winds tearing at his cloak. 

"The job just fell through. I'm going home," he remarked. 

Erin acquired a stunned expression, her mouth wide open as she struggled to process what the thief had just told her.

"You're BAILING on me?!" she gaped. "No way!"

"Way," Garrett sneered. 

Erin gestured furiously with her arms, before throwing them up over her head in a blatant tantrum. 

"I don't get it!" she shouted, "Basso told me you'd be fine with this!"

Garrett hesitated, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he massaged his throbbing temples. In his youth, the thief could recall his own mentor, Artemus, doing this quite regularly. Now, Garrett finally understood why. Turning around, the hooded misanthrope walked up to his child, and gave her a most unsettling glare. 

"Erin. Look, I'm sorry. But I didn't expect this. Not even the greatest of criminals can prepare for every contingency," he explained. 

But Garrett could tell by the headstrong look on her face, that the girl was far from convinced. Far from sated.

"That's why you have skill. Aces up your sleeve," she retorted, "So what if the nobles are dabbling in the unspeakable down there? The stuff we're after is in the East Wing! Why in the hell are you letting what's happening down there bother you like this?!"

"You don't get it," the thief growled. "This isn't about feelings, or blind fear, kid. This, is about past experiences. Mistakes that I don't want you getting tangled up in, Erin."

Impossibly blue eyes surged through the darkness as the spry young huntress glowered up at her paternal guide. Garrett had been far from an astute role model to her. He'd disappointed at Christmas, and forgotten birthdays. But seldom had Erin been more disappointed in the man, as she was in that intransigent moment. 

"I don't care," she snarled, blue eyes vibrant in the dark. "I need what's in the East Wing. And I'm not leaving here without it."

Erin's attempts to assert herself proved futile at best. Before her stood a man who'd seen much, and suffered so much more. His eyes served as bi-colored windows into that which an imperious child such as she could never hope to comprehend. A dismal, inescapable prison of his own design. One that he secretly aspired to safeguard her from at all costs. 

"You can always come back for it later," Garrett rebuked, as the midnight rain grew frigid. "Whatever it is, it isn't worth your life..."

The young woman stared awestruck at him for several moments, before releasing a raucous, mocking chorale.

"My LIFE?" Erin blinked, brushing a strand of jet black hair from her pallid face. "Okay, Garrett. I have time to play. I see...hmm, maybe six gaudy trinkets, a masked sacrifice, and some hooded freaks down there. No offence," the girl grinned up at him. Garrett refused to dignify her with a response.

After a while of cold, awkward silence and raindrops, Erin cleared her throat.

"Okay, so my point was, just what exactly do you suspect's down there anyway? Just what are you so afraid of?" 

The thief glared at her, his cloak billowing in the air behind him like an imposing black flag. Garrett could smell the trepidation laced upon those chilling gales as they stung his face. It was as though the nocturnal abyss that surrounded them, was preparing for war. He glanced down at his boots, memories of perilous encounters long since past racing through his head. They were mages, and they knew the baron. He didn't have to ask why--the situation spoke for itself. Something frightfully dubious, was happening down there. Something that involved that sinister winking relic. 

"It was the first real commission I ever took--and the last. An enthusiastic nobleman and his consort contacted me regarding the thing," Garrett explained. Erin raised an eyebrow.

"You? Working for a noble?!"

"I was young and stupid back then," Garrett grumbled. "All I could focus on, was the promise of wealth beyond my wildest dreams. What sorts of things I could have done with all that money..."

The thief trailed off for a moment, closing his eyes in profound shame. Bitter lament. Thoughts of fine wines, a lavish manse by the sea. His own concubines, and enough treasure to make even a pirate king envious. Such worldly desires had corrupted and clouded his mind, much like Constantine's curious green wine had the eve of their first meeting.  
Garrett still chastised himself for never recognizing the obvious. The Trickster's façade had been only skin deep, that devilish grin prominently out of place upon the old man's face. And yet, the thief had taken the bait regardless. 

Erin's cold fingers tapped his hand, snapping Garrett from his disquieting stupor.

"So, you stole this dude an artifact back when you were my age? So what?" she snorted," and what the taff does that story have to do with anything?"

Her mentor glared at her.

"The thing I stole for him--it's down there right now," Garrett responded in a distant, unsettled voice. 

Erin peered over the skylight again, watching as one of the hooded figures reached for a large and tattered tome.

"Which one?" she asked, more curious and casual than the thief was comfortable with. 

Reluctantly, Garrett pointed out the object in question. Though he couldn't be certain, the thief thought he heard the thing emanate a gravelly chuckle as he did so.

"That one. It's called The Eye."

"The Eye?" his ward parroted, a derisive grin contorting across her face. "Stupid name. It doesn't look anything like an eye."

"That's far from the point," Garrett sneered. "It has one. Two, actually. And it's looking to obtain a third..." 

The moonlighter fought to contain a hitched shudder, but Erin caught the troubled grimace upon his weathered face.

"Garrett? You okay?" she asked, genuinely concerned but still grinning. The thief released a loud, shaken sigh.

"No. I'm not," he replied, his gaze never leaving that horrible relic. It was watching him too, and the thief knew it. "Look, we need to leave now, Erin. That thing...it's..." 

Garrett's mouth went dry, rendering him momentarily speechless. Erin inched closer to where he sat hunched over the edge of the skylight.

"It's what?" she inquired, trying her best to sound genuine, and helpful. Garrett shook his head, standing once again from the rooftop.

"Never mind. We're leaving," he commanded, starting back towards the  edge of the building again. "Come on."

Erin started off after him, nearly tripping herself in her haste. Somehow, she managed to reach and intercept Garrett before he could begin his decent back down the side of the building. 

"Wait a minute!" she panted, arms outstretched. "You're seriously abandoning this heist because you're afraid of a ROCK?!"

Garrett scowled at that, his pupils gyrating in a deep, personal fury. He had always known better than to reveal too much of his past to the girl. But for whatever inexplicable reason, that night, he had. Perhaps it was the overwhelming elation he felt to see her again after nearly four years of alienation. Or perhaps, it was the thief's own distorted brand of paternal instinct, fighting against his aloof personality in order to keep her safe.

"It's sentient, and it's very evil. Let's leave it at that," he snapped. But Erin, was far from satisfied. 

"So what?" she argued. "You're Garrett! You single-handedly blew up the Trickster. You broke up the entire Mechanist order by using their own prophet's weapon against him. Hell, you even destroyed that horrible hag who murdered my parents! You expect me to believe for even one second that you're THIS terrified over a 'very evil' sentient bauble?!"

Lighting lit up the night sky, revealing the thief's innermost turmoil to the girl he'd raised since she was twelve. Erin wasn't prepared for what she beheld chiseled there upon his gaunt, grizzled features. The unspeakable stillness, the icy and detached expression of a man who had seen more than his fair share of evils. Garrett ground his teeth beneath stiff, compressed lips. His eyes closed, and as the thunder rocked the foundation beneath his feet, the criminal wrestled with an extremely delicate conundrum. 

He had never told Erin the specifics regarding the loss of his right eye. The details were far too preposterous for anyone to believe, far too agonizing for the thief to relive. But if he stood any chance to convincing her to abandon the mission that night, risks had to be taken. Sacrifices, had to be made. This reveal, would be his final attempt to try and illustrate the severity of peril to his headstrong charge. It was a moot decision, but one made out of desperation rather than practicality. A part of him knew Erin wouldn't listen. She never did, once the prize was in sight. But another part of him--a part only a handful of souls had ever been privy to--had made the attempt out of some improbable hope that tonight would be different. 

"It's also the reason I lost my eye..." he managed, his voice low and distant. 

For the briefest of moments, Garrett's heart surged with hope when he beheld the mortified expression upon the girl's pale features. There was not a hint of skepticism  locked away behind that lapis glare. Erin, believed him. 

But the thief's hopes were to be dashed just as quickly. Because although she did indeed believe his harrowing tale, Erin still possessed the same regrettable weaknesses that he did: Arrogance. Tenacity. Greed. After all, he had raised her that way. Children often inherit the traits of their guardians--both good, and bad. 

She did not understand. Why, after all this time, all of her personal sacrifices, should SHE admit defeat?!  Her eyes widened for a moment, before glazing over once more with those less-than-desirable traits. 

"Alright, I think I get it," she hissed, turning away in an exasperated motion. 

Again, Garrett assumed that he'd gotten through to her. But hope, often has a way of amplifying disappointment, and pain. Erin faced him, her blue eyes shimmering with brazen confidence. 

"But I'm not like you. This doesn't effect me," she hissed cruelly. 

Garrett's eyes grew wide beneath the shadowy confines of his hood, as the grueling ultimatum of the situation overtook him. Despite everything he'd just explained. Despite everything he'd risked and revealed at the sake of his own comfort, his ward would not be stopped. It was as though her mind was deadlocked, her body acting for the sake of another. Even at her most unruly, Erin had never been this blindingly foolish. It made Garrett wonder, with a sickening shift of his gut, just what she was truly after? And why?

As the girl proceeded to head back across the rooftops in the direction of the Eastern Gallery, something rough grabbed her arm. Erin whirled around, dagger at the ready. Only to see Garrett, the most bothersome look of severity present upon his face.

"Don't..." he snarled, though his features reflected far more concern than anger. 

Erin broke away from his grasp with a sharp, unexpected strength. She sneered up at her mentor, the midnight breeze ruffling her unkempt black bangs. 

"Cut it out, Garrett!" she shouted, shoving him backwards. "You know what? This, is beyond stupid. If your gonna be stuck on this roof having  little PTSD episode, then I'm going on without you."

A sensation like cold electricity swelled within the thief's chest the moment those careless words left her mouth. He could accept her sassy attitude. He could endure her defiance. But when she dared to make light of the hell he'd suffered, after he'd just revealed a particularly terrible experience with her. That was the one thing Garrett couldn't tolerate.

"What the hell do you know about it?!" he shouted, extending his hand and slapping her. "I'll tell you: You don't know shit! So keep your damned mouth shut, Erin!" 

His outburst was an instantly regrettable action. A last resort to try and get his heedless waif to listen to reason. As the Keepers would have put it, a lapse in judgement. Yet another loss of balance. 

The look of deep fear and pleading within his weathered face emphasized this, but the girl at his side felt only the burning in her face, and a vicious resentment budding within her chest. Erin grabbed her cheek, growling in frustration as she leered up at the man whom had practically raised her. 

"I won't. I'm not a child anymore Garrett! And YOU..." she snarled, hesitation holding her venomous tongue for but a moment, before her sinister reprisal bit through those conscientious bindings, "...you, will NEVER be my father..." 

Her words tore away at him, wounding the thief in a place his headstrong charge could never hope to see. A myriad of callous words flooded the thief's mind like briny water; murky and chilling. But in that conflicted moment, the wounded moonlighter could only bring himself to ask one simple question in response.

"Erin, why is this damned gem so important to you?!"

The girl's breath hitched in response to his unexpected quandary. It was as though she could once again feel the knife at her neck, smell the bile and whisky upon her captors. Erin's eyes flooded with hot tears, as she recalled what they had said to her at the start of the week:

"You dare to defy us?! We lost Vanessa 'cause of you, bitch. Now, you're gonna get us that taffing gem, or I'll have your heart instead!"

The Burrick's Soul. One of the largest diamonds in the world. A marvelous prize indeed. Her 'employers' had made their rather passionate request known, but despite all of her previous experience with both thieving and assassination, Erin knew that obtaining the gem would be difficult indeed. That's precisely why she'd contacted Basso, asking him to recruit Garrett onto this little excursion of hers. Despite her arrogance, Erin knew that she couldn't do it without him. But for his sake--and for hers--she couldn't tell him the truth about this job. 

Thunderclouds rolled overhead, and Erin released a loud, distressed sigh. 

"Listen Garrett...I-I can't tell you, okay?" she tried. The hooded rogue glowered down at her. 

"And why the hell not?"

"I just can't, alright?" Erin snapped. "It's...complicated."

It had been almost four years since they'd last spoken, and suffice to say, the evening hadn't been anywhere as hospitable as she'd hoped. When she first encountered her old mentor atop that roof beneath a vibrant sea of twilight and newly-birthed stars, Erin had expected a look of surprise to overtake his rough features. Perhaps even a smile. But instead, Garrett acted as though time itself had been absent for the last four years. 

She continued to eye the thief, how his face now displayed such shock. Though for a different reason entirely. 

In truth, Garrett had his own ways of expressing intense emotion. That was to say, he disliked doing it at all. Outwardly, he preferred his features to remain steadfast and stoic.  
However, what transpired within, was a different story entirely. He hadn't said a word, hadn't asked for even the slightest of details when he'd met her atop the shingles that evening. Garrett didn't bother, because he didn't care. Seeing his girl again after so many years. Seeing her back, not only alive but according to Basso, doing quite well for herself. It filled him with an indescribable joy, a pride which even an arrogant man such as Garrett had never experienced before. 

Garrett didn't question Erin's whereabouts, because simply having her back was more than enough to satisfy him. But now, how he wished that she'd stayed away.  
The truth can be a very damaging thing, regardless as to whether or not one choses to believe it. While Erin hadn't meant them, even now as she deeply regretted those words, the tragedy remained. They were still undeniably true. He was but a bereaved misanthrope, trying to pay homage to a dead man he'd never so much as thanked for saving his life. Erin, had simply tried to pickpocket the wrong man at the right time. 

As the malevolent ritual continued to commence beneath their feet, Erin looked up at her mentor again. Her eyes were large, pleading. Desperate to correct a disastrous slip of the tongue.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said. You...you're the one who saved me. That's more than my biological father could do. I owe you my life, and I don't tell you that enough. I--"

Before she could conclude her apology, Garrett held up a hand to silence her. Rubbing his temples, the thief allowed his balance to slip for the second time that night. 

"--Erin. Just stop. You've been gone four years. You made your choice. You're an adult now. Why the taff should I care how you feel about me?"

Upon receipt of those callous words, Erin's entire world crumbled. Her sapphire eyes shimmered with tears there against that rumbling leaden sky, as she stepped backwards. 

"Is...is that how you really feel?" she gasped, her hushed voice nearly drowned out by the vile storm. 

Garrett turned to face her, his movements stiff and constricted. Remorseful, yet far too proud to admit his guilt. Another clap of thunder echoed throughout the City, as veteran and apprentice made eye contact. The thief's tongue brushed the roof of his mouth, as though the act would ease the flow of words from his tight throat. But before he could even open his mouth, a shrill crackling sound disrupted the night. 

Both Garrett and Erin began to survey the area, seeking a culprit for the peculiar interruption. However, it was the blue-eyed girl who found it first when she looked down. A sickening twinge of dread overtook Erin's person, when she at last realized just where she was standing. Before Garrett could react, the skylight began to splinter outwards around her boots. He lurched forward, his instincts overtaking both reason and guile in that horrific moment.

"Erin! Get back!" he barked. 

But his warning came far too late. The world around him faded to a inhospitable grey, as the thief felt the blood drain away from his face. His heart plummeted into his quivering stomach, and Garrett could only watch through his helpless stupor, as his entire world shattered beneath her. 

***

Garrett sprung from his mattress, panting and drenched with sweat. It ran like blood from his temples, the clammy chill of the clocktower tickling his face. Clutching at the sheets, he stared through one maddened eye at his lap. His body was a trembling mess, his perception hazy at best in lieu of the nightmare and lack of depth perception. But that was until he noticed her. 

Gwenevere was kneeling beside his bed, and as his vision gradually swam into focus, Garrett registered on just how concerned she actually was. Her cherubic face was riddled with an intense worry, her large green eyes almost luminous against a dismal backdrop of filthy shadows. 

"Are you okay, Garrett?" she asked, the moment he glowered up at her. 

"I'm fine!" Garrett barked, catching his breath with a shout. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because," Gwenevere crooned, resisting the urge to rest a comforting hand upon the thief's quaking knee. "You were screaming."

Garrett gawked up at her, the lack of symmetry within his features giving him a frightful appearance. Had he really been screaming? Considering what his nightmare had been about, the thief didn't doubt it. He clutched the bedsheets tighter beneath his thin fingers, chastising himself for allowing the brat to hear him in a moment of weakness.

"Yeah, well even if that were true," he huffed, "I'm fine now."

Gwenevere scooted away from him, her eyes narrowing in response to his cutting words.

"Yes, I can see that you are," she snorted. "Back to your usual, jerky self..."

"Then what are you still doing here Gwenevere?" Garrett stared pensively at her. 

Gwenevere looked up at him, focusing her two eyes into his one. The remaining dark optic seemed to take on an almost sinister tone in the dead of night. She could tell that this sort of prolonged eye contact made her mentor very uncomfortable, but all the same, she needed him to see the gratitude written within her eyes. Furthermore, she had to know why he'd done what he had.

"Garrett?" she asked. The thief's brows furrowed at her bell-like voice. 

"Shouldn't you be getting back to bed?" he sneered. Gwenevere bit her bottom lip.

"I-I haven't been able to sleep at all tonight, actually," she admitted. "I mean, I tried yes. But..."

"But?" the thief raised a cautious eyebrow. Gwenevere looked down at her crossed legs, and began chewing on her hair again.

"Garrett?" she mumbled through a mouthful of red. 

"What?!" he snapped, feeling beyond uncomfortable by this point. 

Gwenevere shot upwards, allowing the moistened strand to slip free from her mouth. Once again, she locked her gaze into Garrett's, though there was an glint of skeptisim and intrigue written within her face this time.

"Garrett, why did you keep me from those men tonight?"

Her question rattled him, causing Garrett's entire face to warp into a look of utmost perplexity.

"What men?" he decided to play the fool, knowing full well just what scum Gwenevere was indeed referring to.

"The bounty hunters outside of the tavern," she explained. Then, the young woman acquired a authentic bleakness within her features. "I may be ditzy. I may be clumsy and naïve. But I know that you despise me, Garrett. No doubt you've come to understand that there's a reward offered for my safe return, and--"

"--considered," the thief corrected. Gwenevere blinked.

"What?"

"A reward is being considered. That's what your poster said anyway," Garrett grumbled. 

"Right," the girl nodded. "So, if you indeed hate me so much, why did you hide me back there? Why didn't you just hand me over to those men?"

Garrett sighed hard, cracking his knuckles as he contemplated the esoteric reasoning behind that innocent question of hers, and the actions he had taken earlier that night.  
Truth be told, he'd been asking himself the same question. He did despise Gwenevere. More than anything, he wanted her out of his tower. Out of his life. So why had he allowed such a superb chance to be rid of her to slip from his grasp?

"I just hate bounty hunters," he shrugged, perverting his response with both lies and truth. "So don't you go getting it into your senseless little head that I actually care about you, or anything like that."

"I...never said you did..." the girl smiled. 

Feeling flustered, the thief's discontent intensified. Despite her best efforts, Gwenevere soon found herself captivated by the empty void on the right half of his face. It seemed to be pulling at her, dragging her down into the unsafe realms of his morose world. When he noticed her incessant staring, Garrett grimaced.

"What is it now?" he barked. 

Without even thinking, Gwenevere blurted out exactly what was on her mind. 

"How did you lose your eye?" she asked. 

The question had been innocent, but it caused a surge of torment to seize Garrett by the chest. No one--not even directly after the incident--had ever possessed the bravery to ask the thief that question. 

But now, out of all the possible inquisitors he had come across, it was this insolent girl who had just unwittingly requested more than she could ever possibly understand. Her clumsy hands and wanting mouth had just ripped open those horrific scars which Garrett had tried so desperately to forget. The thief ground his teeth. She had no right. Initial chagrin, was soon replaced by a savage fury. 

"Don't you EVER ask me that question again! Keep your nose in your own affairs!" he bellowed, before abruptly jerking his face away from hers. 

Gwenevere remained motionless upon the floorboards, her mouth drawn open into an exasperated gape. The girl continued to watch him, feeling for him as he brooded there in the darkness. However he had lost his eye, one thing was now eminently clear to her:  It must have been beyond awful. 

"I'm so, so sorry Garrett..." she finally spoke up, holding back tears as a lump began to form within her frail throat. "I never wanted to hurt you like this. I-I just--"

"--Go. Away," he snarled, his slouched posture heaving with every breath he drew inward. 

Gwenevere stood, tears shimmering at the edge of her remorseful eyes. 

"Thank you, for today," she curtsied, before returning to her place atop the stairs. 

Garrett remained motionless for a time, perched within the serene blackness of his tower like a statue. He shook his head, beyond baffled by the entire situation. Why did she waste those frilly manners on him like that? Why did she stare at him so? And quite possibly the question which haunted him most of all: Why did she--upper crust lady that she was-- want anything to do with a thief like him? 

When he was sure that she was indeed asleep this time, Garrett felt around the empty socket with the base of his thumb, and stood. Slinking past a now slumbering Gwenevere, Garrett ascended the stairway, and propped his elbows against the window ledge. With his remaining eye, the thief looked out over the slumbering city, lost in a sea of deep contemplation:

"Wow, that was amazing!" squealed the little girl at his side. "That guy never even saw you coming!"

Garrett continued to hold the tattered black umbrella over both of their heads, though it was proving difficult. That impish little urchin of his never seemed to stop moving. 

"Picking pockets is all about focus," the thief lectured. "Don't just think about what you're after. You need to be thinking of everything else around you, too."

"But I thought the objective was to cut the purse and get outta there as quickly as possible," the doll-eyed girl at his waist protested. 

"That's part of it," he cleared his throat. "But there's so much more to it than that."

"Like what?" 

Garrett stopped, and so did the girl. He bent down in front of the child, and locked eyes with his new ward. It still seemed so alien and surreal--having someone to look after. Someone to come home to at night. Someone, to love. 

"You have to be aware of your environment. That's the big thing here," he explained, still holding the worn umbrella aloft. "Who might be watching. How much noise the ground you're walking upon makes with each step. Remember Erin: A thief, is an opportunist. And opportunistic beings, need to strike with not only speed, but also precision. Because a thief, never knows where his or her next meal is coming from."

The child continued to hang upon his every word, her cerulean irises glistening against the gloomy backdrop of a leaden sky. It was the only blue Garrett had seen in three days. 

"I think I get it," Erin's mischievous little smile returned. Then, she began scratching at the back of her neck again. 

"What's the matter?" Garrett raised an eyebrow. "You don't have lice again, do you?"

Erin shook her head.

"No. It's just...this new haircut itches a little."

The thief stared down at the unkempt, boyish new look his apprentice was sporting. When first he'd found her, Erin had been a mess. Her mid-length black tresses were riddled with fleas and lice, and matted more than halfway down her back. Garrett was no expert when it came to looking after anyone other than himself, and even less skilled when it came to understanding how girls and women tended to their hair. Therefore, the thief saw to the child's mangy locks in the same manner he saw to his own: His trusty dagger. Erin hadn't cried when first she'd spied her new and butchered hairstyle within the mirror, but the thief could tell she'd wanted to.

"You'll get used to it," he grumbled. Standing back upright, the thief placed a hand upon Erin's back and ushered her forward. "But to paraphrase tonight's lesson, every successful job is made up of a series of much smaller tasks and obstacles. You remember that, and you'll be one hell of a thief someday."

The little girl snickered a bit at her guardian's use of the forbidden swear. She'd never met another adult like him before. While he was stern, cynical, and often oblivious to her needs and desires, there was a certain characteristic about the thief which the child took comfort in: Regardless of all his faults, Garrett, was genuine. And he was always honest with her.   
He did not sugarcoat things the way other adults did. Erin appreciated how simple and straightforward her new guardian was. The way he never talked down to her, despite her young age. Raindrops soaking her face, a sparkle glinted off the corners of her lips as she smiled. 

"When I grow up, I wanna be just like you!" Erin proclaimed.

Garrett stopped walking and stared down at her, a visage of shock and concern twisting his features. How such an innocent statement managed to stir up such a volatile mixture of emotions was beyond him. The thief looked into the starry-eyed whimsy of the child's face, wondering if she would indeed harbor the same aspiration, if she knew just how harrowing and cruel his life had actually been.

"Why would you want to be anything like me?" he murmured, though there was a genuine intrigue intermingled around his harsh words. 

The child blinked, her expression both confused and disheartened. Garrett nearly flinched when her tiny hand found his. 

"Why not?" the girl's playful demeanor returned. "You're so incredible, and smart, and just plain amazing! You saved my life..." 

Erin hesitated, looking down at her feet for several seconds. She appeared almost guilty, as though she'd just broken some unspoken rule between them. Garrett cleared his throat again, prompting his nervous ragamuffin to jump.

"What is it, Erin?" he asked, his voice monotone and hesitant.

In all of his years spent plundering the night, Garrett had seldom been caught off-guard. He had taken down powerful cults, and banished frightening gods from the fabric of his world. But in spite of everything he'd since faced, every trial he'd overcome, it was three little words, straight from the mouth of a wide-eyed orphan, that ultimately rendered him thunderstruck.

"You're my father..."

Though he remained stiff and reticent, Erin smiled as she felt his gloved hand gradually close around her own. And together, thief and apprentice headed for home upon that otherwise unremarkable rainy afternoon.


	11. Liquid Courage

Morning came and went as it often did within that dreary clockwork realm, as it held neither value nor precedence within the tower. Gwenevere finally managed to rouse herself from an uncomfortable slumber sometime near late noon. The girl cast her eyes up towards the monolithic timekeeper, only to huff again in mild frustration when she remembered that it was static. 

"Oh well," she yawned, cherished dreams still fading behind her glassy green eyes. 

Gwenevere found that the nightmares had lessened greatly since coming to Stonemarket. Before, when she was living in Auledale with Simmons, they had occurred almost every other night. Though she couldn't quite be certain as to why they'd finally relinquished their nocturnal torment, Gwenevere was grateful. 

When she glanced over at him, Garrett was still asleep. Her stomach began to twist into a series of uncomfortable knots, as Gwenevere began to recall the incident from before. She wanted to slap herself for causing him so much anger and discomfort. But when the hand found her face with a resounding crack, the girl felt dissatisfied with her punishment. Compared to what she'd done to him, it just wasn't enough.

"Why did you do that? Why did you ask him that?!" she scolded herself in a shrill, broken whisper. "Why must you always make everything worse?!"

This last personal quandary, prompted an anguished gasp to exit the girl creature's lips. After all, last night was far from the first time she'd caused another pain in the name of compassion. 

"I...I should have expected no less from myself," she whimpered. "I thought if I got stronger, and more clever, then this wouldn't happen anymore. But I just keep making such terrible mistakes..."

Gwenevere hastened to cover her mouth, as if this simple act would contain all of the toxic lament spewing out of her. But when she did this, it chose to exit her eyes instead. Thick teardrops coated her full cheeks, as Gwenevere silently sobbed there alone amidst the abandoned tower. All the while, Garrett's heavy breathing and discontented snores persisted. 

***

She must have dozed off amidst her grief, because the next thing Gwenevere realized, someone was shaking her. The girl blinked, her eyes blurry from a mixture of weariness and tears. Garrett was standing over her, the setting sun illuminating his cloaked sillouete. 

"Hey. It's time to begin your--"

"--my training?!" she jolted upright, still wondering just how long she'd been asleep. 

"Don't, interrupt me," he warned slowly, "no. I thought since you're squatting here, you could start making yourself useful."

Gwenevere shot the thief a bothered glare. 

"Does this mean you want me to clean for you again?" she inquired, her tone laced with both disappointment and mild upset. 

"What, you have a problem with that?" Garrett crossed his arms. 

"No. I just thought that my training would take precedence," Gwenevere crossed hers right back, a strand of messy ruby hair falling into her face. 

Garrett sneered at that. With a slow and daunting form, the thief leaned down to her level, and locked eyes with his unwanted apprentice. Gwenevere felt her throat tighten, as those impressive eyes of his drilled into her. His mechanical optic grated and gyrated within his skull, as it continued to focus upon her. But it was the solemn silence of his remaining flesh eye, which disturbed her the most. 

"After you overstepped your boundaries last night, you're damn lucky I don't just kick you out on the street," he snarled in a low, fearsome voice. "Now, you've already demonstrated how well you can clean; both with that tunic you're wearing and the tower. Right now, you're a lot closer to being a maid than a thief, so why don't you make yourself useful for once and grab a broom?"

Gwenevere knew her jaw was dangling open in lieu of her mentor's scathing retort, but she could not bring herself to snap it shut again. Garrett, took smug pleasure in that. He watched as the girl scampered to her feet, and ran to fetch the broom. 

"You can keep right on cleaning while I'm away," he mentioned. The girl glanced up at him, a look of surprise overtaking her cherubic features.

"Away?" she cocked her head. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Out," Garrett snapped in that aggravated, gravelly tone of his. 

His false eye captured glints of sunset, while the entire left side of his face was concealed by musty shadows as he slung the quiver over his right shoulder. Then without giving her another word, Garrett headed for the exit. 

Gwenevere watched him leave, dust and cobwebs swirling in the stale air around her. She wondered where he was going, or why. Though she had never been the disobedient type, her own wanderlust and curiosity often caused the girl to unwittingly break the rules. When she could stand it no longer, Gwenevere dropped the broom and raced across the room to grab her navy cloak. Then, she headed out of the tower after Garrett.

***

The City before her was now little more than a series of black silhouettes against a pristine golden sky. Long shadows marked her passage, as the young apprentice followed her master into the twisted labyrinth of his world. Gwenevere watched as the first streetlights buzzed to life, tiny gnats and moths diving towards their luminosity from  musty corners and hidden alcoves. All around her, the city grew solemn, as another active day drew to a close. She passed by several merchants, who were in the process of wheeling in their outdoor displays, or locking up shop. A dog barked in the distance as the autumn air grew colder, nipping at Gwenevere's exposed cheeks. 

At first, she'd thought herself discreet. After all, she had tailed Garrett this far without being spotted. But all of her pride was abruptly shattered and forgotten, when the master thief came to a jarring halt. The interruption of his pace was so sudden, that it caused Gwenevere to stumble. She only barely managed to maintain her balance after that. With his back to her, a simple question left the muffled confines of Garrett's hood.

"You just can't sit still, now can you?" 

Gwenevere stared at him, her green eyes wide and brilliant against the backdrop of encroaching nightfall. 

"You...you knew I was following you?" she stammered. Garrett glowered over his shoulder at the disobedient brat, his expression one of utmost scorn.

"Yes, and I don't like being followed," he growled. "What are you up to, Gwenevere?"

He watched as the girl began twiddling her thumbs, her long red hair tracing the sides of her little flustered face. 

"I...I came to help..." Gwenevere murmured, then bit her lip before the final words of that offer emerged, "to...to make up for upsetting you last night when I asked about your eye..."

Garrett's eyes narrowed, his face contorting into an ugly mess of visceral contempt, and ancient scars. After he'd verbally slaughtered her the night before, the thief had been certain that Gwenevere would never dare to speak of his eye again. But there was more depth to her obnoxious naivety than he'd initially given her credit for. Did she honestly think he needed her help, simply because he was missing an eye?! Although such implications had been the furthest thoughts from Gwenevere's sympathetic mind, they were unfortunately all Garrett could register upon. 

"Trust me when I say that there is nothing an inexperienced neophyte like you could EVER do for me!" the thief snarled, his words once again taking on that frightening raspy tone. 

"Will you at least let me carry your loot for you?" Gwenevere offered, visibly shaking by this point. But Garrett could care less. "I mean, I could maybe--"

"--Just get lost Gwenevere!" he hollered, shoving the girl backward. This time, Gwenevere did loose her footing. She crumbled down onto the cobblestone road, her eyes wide and glistening with pain-stricken tears. 

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't seem to make this right again.  As she sat there, drenched in both mud and personal guilt, the girl continued to gawk up at her furious mentor. Garrett, glared back. 

Her expression unnerved him. So much desperation and regret  was apparent within her features. The thief again found himself wondering how someone so tactless could display such devotion. Though he'd agreed to teach her the ways of the street, at the end of the day, Garrett was still very much a stranger to her. So why then, did this child choose to risk so much, just in order to help him?

Garrett inhaled a deep breath, before steadily letting it go again. 

"Just, get out of here..." he muttered. 

Gwenevere's bottom lip began to tremble, and for a moment the thief was sure she was going to burst out crying again. Garrett braced himself for the abrasive outburst, only to instead be surprised by the young woman clambering to her feet in a rather calm manner.  But there was still an obvious hurt within her eyes when she looked back at him. 

"Alright. I'll...I'll just head back to the clocktower then..." she sniffled.

"No," he intervened, his words firm and cold as the stones beneath her feet.  "I don't want you drawing attention to my hideout."

The girl looked up at him again, her face one of helplessness and confusion. Garrett squinted, trying to gauge her next reaction. But he had never possessed apt foresight for such things. He could spring any lock, infiltrate an impregnable fortress, kill a god. But when it came to reading social cues, the master thief was just as unwitting and clumsy as the girl creature standing before him now. 

"Then...then where am I supposed to go?" Gwenevere pleaded, her eyes glistening and attentive.

"Anywhere but the clocktower," Garrett grunted, apathetic towards her obvious unrest and fear. "I don't give a taff where you go, so long as it's far away from me."

One look into that hissing prosthetic made everything transparent as glass: She had hurt him by tearing open  long-forgotten scars of unspeakable origins, and Garrett would never forgive her for that. So it was with that crushing ultimatum, that Gwenevere finally succumbed to her sorrows. Her dismal features crumbled into an expression of uttermost hopelessness, tears streaming down her face like warm rain. 

"I'm sorry..." she whispered in a voice so soft and pitiful that the thief had to strain himself to even hear her. "I wouldn't forgive me either..."

Still openly sobbing, Gwenevere hitched up her cloak and tore off down the opposite street. Garrett watched her go, clenching his thin fingers in abject frustration. She was gone, and he could now resume his planned heist without any difficulty. 

So why then, did he suddenly feel so uneasy?

***

The autumn gales whipped through Gwenevere's thin garments as she ran, chilling her damp face. Panic had overtaken her, driving her forward like a primitive animal. Several times, she'd nearly collided with wandering men, or well-dressed women out for a nightly stroll. They did not recognize her, due to the navy covering, and her somewhat bedraggled appearance never before witnessed by the select few who had seen her face. And so thus, they scorned and chastised her rude behavior, and clumsy feet. 

"Watch where you're going, you filthy little raggabrash!" shouted one particularly high-strung lass, with silky blonde locks, and a tiny upturned nose.

The insult caused Gwenevere to cower away into a streetlight like a whipped hound. She had never been called such a thing before. It served as a harsh reminder of how this superficial world viewed the lower classes. A reminder, of what she now was. A loathsome pest, nonessential vermin. That was obviously how Garrett saw her, as well. But at least, a thieving rat was better than a sacrificial lamb. Or a cat's paw, for that matter.

When she at last came to the towering iron gate that lead out of the City, Gwenevere's heart grew restless. It would be so easy. After all, she had escaped Lord Simmons. She was free. Free to leave this place, to return to the woods once more. If they would even have her. 

It had been so very long, and her instincts would not safeguard her against an unforgiving forest. As much as the very idea made her sick, she was far safer here within this artificial stone jungle, than in her natural environment. At least here, she had someone to teach her. Someone to feed her, and provide satisfactory refuge and safety. But now, even with that bulging sack of coin at his waist, the thief had abandoned her. There was no one left in either the Woodsie or Cityhead realms, who cared about her. And that's when Gwenevere, suddenly remembered Basso. He had always been so kind to her, even taking a stand in her name when Garrett had been at his most ghoulish. It was a gamble at best, but what other choice did the wandering and clueless girl have?

***

She found the boxman within his hovel, whistling a glorified old ditty as he hand-fed his cherished little magpie. Basso looked up, lips still pursed mid-note when he heard the basement door creak open. Jenivere squawked and flapped her wings, as crestfallen Gwenevere hurried inside upon clumsy legs, nearly tripping down the stairs. Before the disheveled pauper could even begin to inquire about the nature of her unexpected house call, he felt a pair of weedy little arms being thrown around his impressive girth.  

"Oh, er...um...hiya kiddo..." Basso murmured, his body rigid within her quaking, weepy hug. 

"Basso...oh Basso..." the girl sniffed, wiping her eyelids upon the boxman's dark green scarf. 

Slowly, the older man's posture began to gravitate towards the young woman's obvious needs. His eyes grew warm, as Basso pressed his lips together and smirked up at the ceiling. Perhaps wondering silently to himself, just how he'd managed to obtain this level of trust and affection from the girl. Or if he even deserved such a gift in the first place. 

"Okay sweetheart, okay..." he managed, patting the girl's heaving back with cumbersome, clueless hands. "There there. Everything's gonna be alright."

"B-but it isn't!" Gwenevere bawled, rubbing her face into Basso's chest. The boxman smiled down at her, cupping his palm around the back of her head.

"Why? Are ya dying?" he asked. Gwenevere ceased her violent sobbing, and glanced up at him.

"N-no," she sniffed. "Why would you even assume such a thing?" Basso's eyes twinkled in the dim light.

"Is the City being taken over by three-headed dog monsters?" 

"No..." Gwenevere couldn't help but smile at the outrageous assumption. 

"And have the Hammers instituted prohibition?" 

"I don't really know what that means, but I don't think so," the girl shook her head. Basso's smile lengthened.

"Well then," he grunted, "in that case, I can't rightly think of a reason why we can't fix whatever's got you so upset."

Gwenevere wiped her eyes, her smile seeming to grow right alongside Basso's. While his speculations had been wildly exaggerated, they had managed to illustrate a very good point. 

"I suppose you're right," she sighed, feeling a bit better. 

"'Course I'm right, girly!" Basso grunted, motioning for his guest to take a seat atop his shabby cot. "Now, why dont'cha tell Uncle Basso exactly what happened..."

***

Gwenevere took a seat, feeling a bit better after Basso's kindly intervention. She dabbed away the last of her tears, and began kicking her legs back and forth atop the rickety bed. Basso made his way to the opposite end of his homely abode, and began fiddling with various bottles and cups. 

"Thirsty, kid?" he asked, turning to face Gwenevere with a large golden bottle in hand. 

"I suppose I'm a little parched," the girl replied, licking her lips. Basso gave a satisfied nod, and went back to preparing their drinks. 

"Thought ya might be in the mood for some libations," he commented, "always makes me feel better, anyway."

Gwenevere listened to the sounds of pouring liquid and stirring, feeling as Jenivere came to rest upon her shoulder. The girl smiled weakly, as she began stroking the magpie's glossy black feathers. 

"Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice," she crooned. Basso returned to her, a glass of whisky in one hand, and an odd purple concoction in the other. 

"Aw, it ain't no imposition, Gwennie," he smiled, offering the latter cocktail to her. 

Gwenevere blinked at the strangely-colored beverage, before giving it a curious sniff. It contained the familiar sweetness of forest fruit, but also something quite pungent and foreign.  
"What sort of drink is this?" she inquired, taking hold of the glass. 

"This here's called a Plumsie Smooch," Basso answered. "I got the recipe from some hot-blooded trollop down by the docks. She twern't a real Pagan or anything, but by golly she was a savage in the sack, I'll tell ya..."

The boxman began to chuckle at his own lewd comment, leaving poor Gwenevere wondering indeed how and why he was going around stuffing women into sacks to begin with. She began pushing the straw around the rim of her glass, her mind still far too upset to take a sip. Basso noticed this, and taking a swig from his own glass of liquid courage, the unshaven pauper plopped down beside her. The worn bedsprings creaked and protested under his weight, the shift in pressure causing the much lighter girl to bounce. With a concerned grunt, the boxman began to speak. 

"Mmm. Somethin' tells me that there's a certain taffer to blame for your current state of affairs, kiddo."

"You could say that..." Gwenevere sighed. 

Basso shook his head, and began tilting his glass around in the low light, marveling at the reflections within the rich golden brew. 

"Yup. Three guesses as ta who, and the first two don't count..." Basso rolled his eyes. He then turned and gave Gwenevere a very serious look. "He didn't hurt ya, did he?"

The accusatory, almost protective inflections flavoring his words rattled the girl. No. Despite his rude and often cruel behavior, Garrett had been decent to her. He hadn't raised a hand to her, or denied her a meal. These examples alone, marked him as a far better man than Lord Simmons had ever been. 

"I think, I was the one who hurt him..." she admitted, finally taking a sip of the cold drink. The familiar taste of plums tickled her taste buds, although that strange extra ingredient added a twinge of bitterness to the flavor. Basso looked down at her.

"Whadda ya mean?" he asked. Gwenevere took a longer, much larger sip from her straw before answering. 

"The other night, I asked how he lost his eye..."

Basso nearly choked upon his drink as Gwenevere relayed this information. 

"Ooh..." the boxman nodded, cringing as he ran his fingers up over his face. "Yup, that'll do it..."

"I didn't know he would get so mad!" Gwenevere protested, her eyes apologetic and vivid.  "I was just curious is all! I later realized just how badly I must have made him feel, putting him on the  spot like that. So that's why I followed him tonight. I-I thought that maybe...I could make it up to him..."

Wiping liquor from his upper lip, the bedraggled fence took in a deep, contemplative breath. 

"Garrett's...not really the type of guy you can just make things up to," he explained, his blank stare lost somewhere on some nameless corner of the small room. "For as long as I've known him, he's always been like that..."

"B-but he told me to go away, Basso. And he said that I couldn't go back to the clocktower. I..." 

She began to cry again, but guzzled down the remainder of her drink before the tears could prick at her eyelashes. Basso hastened to mix her another, standing from the bed and causing her to bob upward again.

"I wouldn't worry about it so much, girly. Garrett's just a bitter old taffer who can't let a grudge go. But with my gold in tow, he ain't exactly got any choice but to train ya."

Basso returned, and handed the troubled girl a second drink. She took the brew with wanting hands, and began chugging it down immediately. After the glass was half-empty, she looked back up at her grizzled old host.

"B-but I think he's given up on me this time, Basso..." she mumbled. 

The boxman grew livid, his round face reddening at the very idea. He slammed his whisky glass down hard atop his desk, and ground his teeth. 

"The hell he has!" Basso bellowed. "Not after what I had to do to get that money I paid him with!"

"W-what can I do to make him forgive me, Basso?" Gwenevere beseeched him; half desperate, and half frightened by the disheveled criminal's violent outburst. "I mean, i-if he never lets a grudge go..." 

The girl shivered at the thought. Above all else, she needed Garrett to tolerate her. If he couldn't tolerate her, how was he ever going to train her? And if he didn't train her, then every goal the young woman had set for herself would be meaningless. 

Somehow, the boxman managed to calm himself down considerably before answering her.

"This is a long shot, but maybe if you give a little something of yourself, then Garrett may feel less awkward about the entire situation," he encouraged. 

"Give something...of myself?" Gwenevere crooked her head to the side, unsure as to just what Basso was suggesting.

"Look. If you open up to him, if you show him that you have weaknesses and secrets too, that may just work. Garrett's always been a real sucker for confidential information. When he feels like he holds all the cards, he gets cocky. And when he gets cocky, he's more open to trying certain things," Basso winked. "Like, talking to people, for example."

Gwenevere finished her drink, and smiled. Now she understood. 

"You must be very happy to have a friend like Garrett," she commented, her cheeks rosy. Something within that drink was relaxing her, and causing her to feel very lightheaded and warm. 

Basso stifled an abrupt snort.

"Oh yeah, I'm doin' backflips over here..." he groused, his expression almost comical. Pointing to Gwenevere's empty glass, Basso stood up again. "Another?"

"Yes please," the girl smirked, handing her host the cup. She was beginning to feel very dizzy. "I mean, yes. Garrett seems very cold and calculated. But, considering what he does, isn't that a good thing?"

As he prepared her a third drink, Basso couldn't help but smirk at such blind innocence. 

"Depends, kiddo. Depends. Some of us manage to be the 'bad' guys without losing our humanity. I've met ice mages warmer than that guy..."

"Really?! You've met an ice mage?!" Gwenevere hiccupped. Basso shot her a solemn glare as he handed back her coveted concoction. 

"I was jokin' kid..."

"Oh," the girl blushed, taking another long sip. "So how about you?"

"What about me?" Basso sat back down again, after refilling his own glass. Jenivere cawed, before fluttering over to his shoulder. Gwenevere stared up at the ceiling, lost in deep contemplation, and alcohol-infused bliss. 

"Well, I've always kind of wondered where you got the money to bribe someone like Garrett to train me." 

The boxman grew visibly bothered upon receipt of her inquiry. 

"That ain't important. But I will say this: Stealin' shit's pretty lucrative in and of itself, kiddo."

"Then, how come you live in a basement, rather than in a penthouse, or a mansion or something?" Gwenevere questioned, now quite tipsy.  Basso chuckled at that. 

"Oh, if only. But unfortunately, for every bit ya snatch, more than half of it goes to uh...'living costs'."

"Meaning?"

"Well, I'm sure even a green gal like yerself can understand how hard it must be, yeah? Most taffers around these parts--they don't like our type. They'd rat us out at a moment's notice, us thieves. So, tragically, most of us end up spendin' a good portion of our hard-earned loot payin' bribes or buyin' equipment. For, me it's the former."

"I'm...sorry to hear that," she frowned, toying with her straw again. "But, why bribe Garrett to do this for you? Why is teaching others to become thieves really so important to you?"

Basso reached for the golden whisky bottle, and refilled his glass with a deep sigh. 

"Some may call me a sentimental old sod, but I just can't stomach the idea of everything I've ever worked for disappearing right along with me. I never had no kids--well, at least, not that I know of, heh," his cheeks grew rosy. "So, I take the youngins under my wing, so to speak. When I'm up there with the Builder, I wanna be able to look down an' see new thieves and scoundrels pickin' up where I left off."

"I never would have expected you to be a religious man," Gwenevere commented. 

"Well, I don't go to Sunday service or nothin'--meself and the Hammerites have a pretty murky relationship. But yeah, I believe he exists, sure," the boxman shrugged haphazardly, then turned to examine her. "Why? Ya think just because I'm a criminal, I can't be a prayin' man?"

Gwenevere's inebriated eyes went wide, the last glimpses of her fading sobriety registering upon the pauper's obvious vexation.

"Oh no, that isn't what I meant at all!" Gwenevere clarified. "It's actually...kind of refreshing to see someone so open about their faith in this city. Other than the Hammerites, I mean."  
Basso raised a finger, pointing to the ceiling for no particular reason. His own intoxication was beginning to show by this point. 

"Don't forget the Pagans! Or that new fanatical group, the Growers! See, that's what's wrong with the City in my personal opinion! Ya get all of these fanatics, who in turn exclude and look down upon the rest of us normal folk." 

"Yes. The factions aren't very welcoming or forgiving, are they?" Gwenevere responded in a forlorn tone. "I think that's why so many people I've met around here are either skeptical, or choose to keep their mouths shut about religion."

"Right you are!" Basso slurred. "But, I don't blame the Builder for that. That's just what happens with fanaticism. Some obsessed and moonstruck cleric grabs a tome, gets popular, and everything just snowballs. Pretty soon folks are takin' his word at face value, rather than doin' the actual research themselves. When people stop thinkin' on their own, it always leads to bad things, Gwennie. Remember that. Just because the Hammers are nuts, doesn't mean the Builder's necessarily a bad guy. He's just got one hell of a fan club."

Gwenevere smirked a little at that.

"It's something to ponder, anyway," she nodded, looking down at her glass. 

Silence enveloped the small one-room dwelling for a time, the scent of pipe smoke and decay mingling with the faint hints of strong liquor and wild fruit. Jenivere began to preen herself atop Basso's shoulder, while both of the befuddled humans gawked at nothing through their gormless, gaping mouths. 

"What about you, kid? Do you believe in the Builder?" Basso finally asked. 

"I do. I believe in all the gods, actually," Gwenevere admitted. 

"Oh?" the boxman's expression grew animated again. "Now that's rare these days. Not so sure the Trickster exists myself. Sounds a bit too farfetched and all. Cloven hooves and horns? I mean, come on! I think 'trickster' is just a metaphorical term for the evils of the world, meself. The Hammers just needed a literal demon they could blame it all on, so they made one up."

"Oh, he's real alright..." the girl replied in a hushed, almost fretful voice. 

Something about the way she'd uttered those four little words, caused a shudder to traverse the veteran lockpick's spine. Perhaps it was the level of conviction with which she had spoken that gave Gwenevere's confession the characteristics of a personal story. But in the moment, he'd merely chocked it up to the heavy alcohol consumption. 

"Well, my mama raised a gentleman, so I ain't gonna be the sort of guy to tell a lady she's wrong. If you believe that he exists, then you have my respect," Basso patted her back, a bit harder than usual. Gwenevere giggled at the rough gesture of friendship.

"I gotta pee all of a sudden," she mumbled, her tongue feeling like soft rubber inside her mouth. 

But Gwenevere had never so much as sniffed alcohol before that night. Thus, the poor girl had no idea of its effects on her mind and body. Though Basso tried to stop her as she attempted to get up from the bed, the girl was too eager. Her balance temporarily lost to the strong chemicals now coursing through her system, Gwenevere toppled over onto the dirt floor. Then, she began laughing again. 

"Hey kid, you okay?" Basso asked, getting to his feet much slower than she had. After all, the boxman had a great deal more experience when it came to maneuvering around drunk. The inebriated redhead gazed up at him with crazed, sparkling eyes. 

"Ohhh yeah, suuure. I'ma jus' fiiine..." Gwenevere laughed, her words incredibly garbled. "Where'r the toilets?"

"Aw, over there somewhere," the boxman gestured to his left, which Gwenevere took as an exact set of directions. Shrugging, the girl stumbled over to the corner of the room, squatted, and released her bladder. 

That, was around the time Garrett came walking into Basso's seedy little establishment.

"Alright Basso. I've finished the job, so where's my pay?" the Master Thief demanded, obviously exhausted from his previous heist. 

The boxman waved him off, taking another sip of his beverage. When he spoke again, his voice was raspy, and just a touch slurred. 

"Eh, I'll pay ya in a minute."

The thief's frown intensified, as his patience continued to deplete. But Garrett wasn't truly irked, until he noticed Gwenevere.

"What the taff's she doing here?!" he demanded, pointing towards where the young woman was squatting in the corner of the boxman's domain. But he turned away in abashed disgust, when he indeed realized just what she was doing there. 

Throughout the course of his arduous existence, Garrett had met a myriad of colorful characters. Yet he'd never encountered any woman who was content to casually relieve herself in a corner--much less a so-called 'noble' woman.

"Basso, did you know she's--"

"GARRETT!!" Gwenevere suddenly shouted upon noticing him. 

The totaled girl stumbled over to the thief in a series of awkward twirls, like some sort of drunken ballerina. She collided against his chest, and proceeded to marvel up into his vulpine face with glazed green eyes. 

"Didju know that you...hava alota hairs up yer nose, Garrett? Ya'know dat?" the hammered girl asked. A dreamy grin was plastered across her sanguine face, her top row of teeth extended down over her bottom lip in a mischievous fashion. 

"Gwenevere!" he barked, causing the girl to slide down his body with another giddy snicker. Garrett glowered down at Basso, who was wearing a stupid grin of his own by this point. "You got her drunk?!"

"Well yeah. The poor kid's mah houseguest, Garrett!" Basso spat. Then, in a far less casual tone, "plus, she needed a drink, after all she's had to deal with..."

"I, honestly have no idea what you're on about, Basso," Garrett blinked.

Basso stood again, stomped over to the thief, and poked him in the chest. 

"You honestly don't know? Well, imma gonna tell ya then, Garrett!" Basso threatened. Garrett rolled his eyes. 

"Oookaaay...waste my time much, Basso?"

"Oh! Imma waste, eh? Weeelll, I'll tell you somefing!" the drunken pauper lost his footing, swerving to the side for a moment. "This, poor kid, ran to me sobbing tonight! You made her cry, Garrett! You did that! What'd you do to her?!"

"I don't have time to argue with drunks, alright? Do you have my money, or not?"

"Riiight...yeah, sure because that's what it's aaalll about with you, inn'it?" Basso pointed an accusatory finger into Garrett's face. The annoyed thief stared cross eyed at the chubby digit for a few seconds, before pushing the boxman off of him.

"Sleep it off, Basso," Garrett groused. 

"I ain't THAT drunk!" Basso shouted. "And ya know, you could at least TRY to be a little nicer to Gwenevere!" 

"I'm not a nice guy, Basso. You know that. Besides, you wouldn't imagine the trouble that girl can get into without constant discipline. Tonight she actually followed me out to a job site. That could have sabotaged an entire month's worth of planning alone!" 

"Jus'...jus' tryta take it abit easier on the gal, okay?" Basso closed his eyes, motioning with his hands for the thief to calm down. This, had the opposite effect. 

"Why? What's she ever done for me?" Garrett argued. 

"Well, she hasa lotta money at home," Basso shrugged. "Maybe she'd be willin' ta share some o'her family jewels with ya?"

"Is that some sort of double entendre, Basso? Because I'm really not interested..." Garrett grumbled, stuffing his hands deeper into his warm cloak.

"It wasn't, and aye didn't say ya were..." the boxman shot his friend a sly, drunken glare. "Look, I know Gwenevere canbe a handful. She's loud, an' boisterous, but she has a sweet heart. She's willin' to learn from ya, and I'm sure the kid means well. Maybe instead of focusin' on everything she's bad at, you should be tryin' ta focus on what she's...not bad at?" 

"You really think that's all it'll take, huh?" Garrett raised an eyebrow. Truth be told, he had no idea why he was even entertaining his sloshed friend. "Tch, I highly doubt it."

"You gonna take'er home, er what?" Basso inquired, though his inflections were more demanding than curious. 

Garrett glared back down at Gwenevere. She had fallen asleep on his boots, after overexerting herself. Her hair was more messy than he had ever seen it before, and Garrett couldn't help but notice the faint tearstains running down the length of her flushed cheeks. 

"Do I even have a choice?" he groaned.

"Not if ya wanna keep my money, ya don't," Basso smirked. 

With a reluctant sigh, Garrett hoisted the girl up over his shoulder, and started making his way out of the stuffy basement. As he passed by, Basso gave his old friend a playful--somewhat cryptic wink. 

"Just talk to her. You'll see what I mean."


	12. Conversation

SIMMONS FAMILY MANOR  
ONE WEEK AGO:

The enraged footfalls of metal-clad guards overwhelmed Gwenevere, sending her quaking body into a frozen state of panic. The resounding echo within that claustrophobic hallway boomed within her skull, as gooseflesh began to erupt across her chilled flesh. The girl released a small whimper, at the very notion of these men finding her. 

A wrinkled, yet warm hand graced her cheek, coaxing the fretful girl back to the peril at hand. Gwenevere's eyes eased open, the visage of her most cherished handmaiden settling her chaotic nerves. 

"Child. I understand how very frightened you must be," the old woman crooned. Then, her weathered features grew firm. "But you must control yourself far better than this. Once you're out there, no one will be able to safeguard you as I have. You, will be responsible for your own survival."

Gwenevere's eyes widened, before flooding with cold, bitter tears. She reached out for, and clutched Olaura's hands tightly. 

"Oh Nana," the girl creature whispered, "Are you sure I'm ready?"

The kindly beldam smiled, sympathy lacing her lips and soft periwinkle eyes. Gwenevere's tears continued to flow, trickling down her cheeks and dripping onto both their hands. Olaura frowned, surprised by just how reluctant this child was to obtain true freedom.

"Darling girl, I have taught you what little magic I know. How you choose to use these powers, will inevitably decide your fate."

Gwenevere shook her head, causing the deep blue curtains shrouding them to flutter. 

"B-but Nan, I don't even know where to go once I'm out there!" she protested. 

Olaura clasped one of her young mistresses' frail shoulders, and squeezed. The adamant gesture prompted Gwenevere to settle again, and with all the hesitation of a timid child, she faced her guardian. There was now a faint hint of reluctance and trepidation within the old woman's expression, though it was apparent that Olaura was struggling to conceal it. As much as she did indeed desire to keep Gwenevere with her, realistically, the maid knew this was impossible. Simmons would eventually kill the girl if she stayed, and whatever weak spells the old crone still possessed would only delay this wicked desire for so long. 

No, the fact of the matter was clear: Gwenevere, did not belong in captivity. She needed, to be free. Her bloodline demanded it. Wild beasts, did not make good pets. But, they could be invaluable friends.

"Listen to me, my dear," the elder began, her voice cracking as she handed Gwenevere a small indigo knapsack. "You may not understand right now, but you will. Goodbye, is just another hello, my dear. We will meet again one day, and on that glorious day, you will demonstrate all the strength and heart which I have always known you to possess."

The withered maid pulled the trembling young girl into a warm, gentle embrace. A single greasy tear slid down her bedraggled, sagging cheek. Gwenevere hugged her tighter, her eyes squeezed shut as though to hide her innermost personal doubt. 

"But what if I can't do it, Nan?" she squeaked, "What if all I am--all I've ever been--is some tool to be used by one who possesses far greater power?"

Olaura's fading eyes shimmered, stricken with pain by the innocent girl creature's wonderings. Simmons, had been far from the first wicked soul to believe such filth. To try and mold this wondrous being of infinite potential and spirit, into little more than a puppet with a singular purpose. Prying the girl tenderly away from her chest, the tired old woman stared Gwenevere dead in the eyes. 

"You, are nobody's tool, child," Olaura declared solemnly. "Only you, can decide your place in this world. There exists a myriad of possibilities for you beyond these manor gates, but if you choose to remain here with me--with Lord Simmons--then the only fate awaiting you, is death."

Gwenevere's eyes grew wide, and she sniffled a bit. Her guardian was right, and she knew it. Even though the very notion of fleeing terrified her, deep down, staying here with Simmons terrified her even more. She knew the time was drawing near. She could not risk another sacrifice attempt. This time, there would be no interruption from a pair of misfortunate thieves. This time, the horrible ritual would be successful. Simmons and the Baron would get what they so coveted, and Gwenevere's short, miserable life would be snuffed out. 

Giving her handmaiden an accepting--albeit hesitant--dip of her head, Gwenevere wiped away her tears. 

"I...understand..." she whispered, her voice scratchy and timid, like the soft warble of a fretful dove.

Olaura nodded, a look of pride replacing the fretful tears upon her weathered face.

"I am pleased to hear that, my dear," she complimented, leaning forward. "Now, listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you: Go down into the lowest reaches of the City, where only those who have truly lost all hope reside. There, you must seek out a man named Basso. He'll be able to help you obtain the vengeance that you seek..."

The old woman reached into the knapsack she'd handed to Gwenevere, and opened it. Inside, were packs of kept leaves and herbs, a pouch of unknown contents, and a rolled up parchment. Olaura grabbed the last item, and unfurled it for Gwenevere. 

"This map, should help you get there. But you will need to do some legwork in order to find Basso himself. He is a fence you see. A criminal. Ergo, he will not have his whereabouts posted somewhere for all the City to see," she explained. 

"Then how will I find him?" Gwenevere cocked her head, taking the map from Olaura's extended hand.

"Ask around when you get there. I'm sure someone down in the slums knows exactly where you can find the man."

Gwenevere listened intently, absorbing each word into her memory like a thirsty plant. Then, she began to frown.

"How do you know all of this, Nan? How do you know that this Basso will help me?" she inquired.

Olaura's eyes gleamed with a mysterious hint of power. 

"Because, you have something he desperately wants. Something men have been both curious and cautious about since the dawn of time."

"And that is?" 

"Magic," Olaura winked. 

Without hesitation, the elderly servant pulled Gwenevere back into a long hug. She squeezed tighter than before, restoring the seepage from the emotional child's brilliant green eyes.   
Pulling back, Olaura's smile began to falter ever so slightly.

"Now go," she ushered, her voice cracking as she reached the last word. The last syllables she would be speaking to the young maiden for a very long while. 

Wordlessly, Gwenevere did as she was bade. Opening the large window behind them, she looked downward into the dark foyer  below. Long, thick vines shot forth from all corners of her body, temporarily giving the demure girl the appearance of something frightful. Using these newly-sprouted appendages, Gwenevere exited through the open window, and proceeded to shimmy down the side of the manor. Once on the ground, she rushed over to the towering sandstone walls surrounding Simmons' stately home. She repeated the process, climbing up rather than down this time. 

Once she reached the top, Gwenevere hesitated before descending back down the other side. She looked up at Olaura, tears still twinkling in her celadon eyes like starlight. She watched as her trusted guardian gave her a slow, reassuring nod, before disappearing down the opposite side. The City, and all the freedom and possibilities within, were waiting for her.

***

THE CLOCKTOWER  
PRESENT DAY:

Gwenevere was jostled from deep slumber by a pair of nimble hands giving her shoulders a rough shake. Still locked within a dreary stupor, the girl's eyes eased open to identify the source of the commotion. Immediately, she wished she hadn't. Her entire world appeared hazy, and even though Gwenevere knew she'd gotten a full night of rest, she still felt incredibly tired. Her body hurt, her head was throbbing, and there was a constant, vile churning of fluids within her gut. 

"Good. You're awake," a familiar voice grumbled, "took ya long enough..."

Gwenevere rubbed her sore eye sockets, and squinted up at Garrett. The thief had his back to her, still draped in that long ebony cloak of his. Looking around her, the young woman realized that they weren't upstairs in the clock room, but rather further below in the old Hammerite dormitories. She recognized the piercing red tapestries forthwith. For some bizarre reason, they always filled the girl creature with unspeakable tenacity, and animosity.

This sudden surge of emotions and recollection, brought forth an overpowering need to vomit. Scrambling for the chamber pot concealed beneath the bed, she held the rancid thing just below her chin, and emptied the fermenting contents of her stomach. Wiping her mouth upon her sleeve, she heard Garrett muttering to himself. Although she couldn't quite be certain, it almost sounded like, 'yep. Such a lady indeed...'

When the thief did eventually turn around, he was holding something in each of his hands. Steaming mugs of what Gwenevere could only presume to be either coffee or tea. 

"Here. Drink this. There's a reason why the bluecoats are always so damn jumpy on night patrol..." Garrett smirked, handing her one of the beverage containers. 

Gwenevere took it graciously, her icy fingers soothed by the new source of warmth. As she began to sip, Garrett sat down on the cot across from hers. He began to drink his own brew, surveying the strange, hungover lass with pondering eyes. 

Basso was quite possibly one of the dumbest taffers Garrett had ever had the misfortune of knowing. But by some ludicrous jest--likely conjured up by a god or goddess with far too much time on their hands--the old boxman always grew incredibly cognizant--even downright insightful--when he was pickled. For as long as he'd known the man, Basso had always been an intellectual drunk. And for once, Garrett was adamant to make that work for him. If Gwenevere was going to be staying with him long term, the reluctant thief decided that he should at the very least figure out why she'd come into his world in the first place. In that respect--and that respect alone--Basso did in fact have a good point. 

"Uhhh...why do I smell like pee?" Gwenevere mumbled in a soft, tired voice. The girl sounded as though she hadn't slept in several days. 

"I'm sure Basso's hovel smells a lot worse..." Garrett answered. Gwenevere faced him with a worried expression. 

"W-what do you mean?"

"Forget about it," the thief groused. It didn't concern him, and truth be told, Basso's home had never exactly smelled like a basket of roses. Garrett doubted his fence would even notice. 

Gwenevere paused for a bit, looking around the room they were in with dazed confusion in her eyes. 

"Garrett? Why are we in the Hammerite sleeping place again?" she at last inquired.

"The dormitories?" he corrected, his cynicism at its pique after a sleepless night. "Look. I know you said that you like sleeping on the stairs for whatever reason, but I need my space. And so do you."

Gwenevere's face contorted in disapproval.

"But Garrett!" the girl started to protest, before her own outcry prompted the pounding in her skull to intensify. She flopped backwards onto the bed with a low moan of great discomfort. The sides of Garrett's mouth twitched upwards a little, as he watched his young apprentice clutch at her forehead and eyes. 

"Don't try to fight me on this, Gwenevere," the thief spoke, before taking another drink of his coffee. Then, with a reluctant smile, he added, "after all, you're pretty hungover."

"No, I'm not," Gwenevere grumbled. "I'm laying on my back over here, not upside down!"

"Uh-huh," Garrett mused, shaking his head at her ridiculous response. Sometimes, the thief genuinely couldn't tell if the girl was just that naïve, or if she really was making some terrible attempt at a joke. This, was one such time. 

He looked around him, the scent of dry rot and wood oil permeating his nostrils within the forgotten bowels of that place. Old and forgotten though it was, the clocktower was nevertheless looking much nicer. Gwenevere's cleaning had returned the upper levels of the clock room to at least some semblance of tidiness. Something the creaky old husk hadn't been privy to ever since the Hammerite's forced departure. But even still, certain factors caused the thief to wonder. Queries and thoughts kept secret behind his stalwart glare. His hideaway seemed...somehow brighter in the recent weeks. Warmer even. 

The two figures sat in silence for a time, as a grand stare-down commenced between the jaded cynic, and the passionate idealist. But surprisingly, it was the former who would inevitably break this stalemate.

"You uh...were mumbling something in your sleep last night, Gwenevere," Garrett cleared his throat. 

The girl sat back upright and blinked. She reached for her coffee cup again, and wisps of steam began tickling her sensitive nose. She sneezed, sending her messy bangs tumbling forward into her face. Garrett compressed his lips together, concealing a nearly inaudible scoff. Flushed, Gwenevere looked back up at him, brushing the strands of unkempt crimson from one of her wide, green eyes. 

"Sorry...it's so musty down here," she smirked. The thief, was unamused. When she realized that he wasn't about to participate in her attempted conversation, Gwenevere's face reddened even more. "Ummm...so, what exactly was I saying?"

"Something about doing your best, or making someone proud. I don't know, something like that," the thief answered her, taking another sip from his cup.

"Oh..." Gwenevere looked down at her teacup in deep shame, watching as the dark liquid reflected the tragedy and deep unrest looming within her eyes. 

"What's your deal anyway?" Garrett inquired, in a crude, almost mocking tone. "Why are you so obsessed with what other's think of you? Is it a superficial noble's thing, or?"

"No," Gwenevere released an annoyed sigh, leering up at him. "I'm not some attention-seeking brat, Garrett. I just want to help people. That's all."

"That's all, huh?" the thief chuckled, before abruptly rolling his eyes. "Riiight...So tell me, what sort of game are you playing here, Gwenevere? What makes you want to devote your life to crime anyway? You looking to get revenge on your old man?"

Gwenevere hastened to finish the last of her coffee. It tasted horribly bitter, given that her host hadn't added any cream or sugar. But it was doing an excellent job or banishing her first hangover. 

"Not entirely, no," she replied. "And if I am in any case, it's not because of what he's done to me..."

"It's a yes or a no question. Do you want revenge on Simmons or not?" Garrett demanded, growing irritated with her cryptic nonsense. He'd gotten enough of that from the Keepers to last him a lifetime. Hence, it never ceased to personally irk him whenever anyone spoke in riddles, or offered vague responses. 

Gwenevere set her cup back down upon the large wooden chest beside her new bed, and stood. She began to pace around the dormitory, running her thin fingers through the dust and cobwebs. 

"Simmons has very little to do with any of this. I had to get away from him to live my life. That's all. I want to become a thief in order to help the poor. If I steal money or food, or anything of substance really, I can make their lives just a little bit better," the young woman faced him, passion and virtue glistening within her unassuming little face. "That, is my goal. I want to be the vigilante and protector of this city!" 

Garrett nearly dropped his coffee cup when she relinquished that information. Gwenevere, wasn't some mere noble's brat thirsty for the taste of danger and defiance. No, it was far, far worse than that. The starry-eyed youth before him, was dead serious. 

But she'd built all of her plans on the foundation of a dreamer's mentality, without any thought or foresight for what this would realistically entail. Memories of Erin's death, her fall upon that horrible night one year ago, came flooding back to him, as Garrett glowered back at the innocent redhead. 

"Are you serious?! That's what this is all about?!"

"Yes," Gwenevere responded, as casually as though the thief had just asked if she'd like some more coffee.

Garrett stared at her, his face darkening and dumbstruck by her sheer naivety. 

"But you have no idea what you're even doing!!" he finally exclaimed, slamming his half-full coffee cup onto the chest beside hers. Gwenevere startled at his sudden outrage, her emerald eyes awash with bitter upset.

"Then maybe instead of pointing out all my mistakes, why don't you just teach me so I can improve!" she countered. Garrett swallowed his frothing rage, and began to massage his aching temples.

"Gwenevere. Do you even know what being a vigilante entails?! You'd have to be leagues ahead of where you are now, and that would require years of training on my part. And if you think I'm gonna house your sorry hide for that long, you are out of your mind."

The girl's lips grew taut, and for a moment, Garrett was sure she was about to cry again. But somehow, Gwenevere gulped down her tears, and collected herself before answering him.  
"But I thought you were the best," she countered. "Surly, it wouldn't take nearly that long for you to train me..."

Garrett frowned. Oh, she was good. Using his own pride against him like that. He stood, staring down at the curious girl, still baffled by what to make of her. At times, Gwenevere seemed downright stupid. But then, there were moments such as this one, where she would spout something quite clever and poignant. Such instances, never ceased to surprise him.

"I may be the best, but you're the absolute worst. I can't train what isn't there to begin with, Gwenevere," he spoke coldly. "If you possessed some semblance of talent, then maybe. But I'm a thief, not a priest. I can't work miracles." 

"But you told me just the other day that you wanted me to be able to pickpocket someone by the end of the month. You said that was a reachable goal for me. If you can teach me something like that so fast, then I can't be all that hopeless, now can I?!" Gwenevere argued, once again demonstrating the quick wit she was more than capable of. "So what's the real reason you won't train me to do so much more? Why won't you help me reach my goals, Garrett?"

"Because you don't belong here," he muttered.

"That's what you keep saying, but I think--"

"--Listen to me. For all of your idiocy and clumsiness...you're actually a pretty nice girl. I don't know your situation with Lord Simmons, but I do know one thing: This city will eat away at your soul real quick if you continue to stay here."

His honest words, prompted the girl to shiver. Gwenevere watched as a look of great disturbance registered upon Garrett's face. The rusty-haired runaway narrowed her eyes, as the pieces of this macabre and depressing puzzle gradually began falling into place.

The moonlighter quickly turned away when he realized she was now staring directly at him. The realization of what he'd just divulged to her--albeit unwittingly--was harrowing indeed. 

"Is that what happened to you? Is that...why you're so mean?" Gwenevere asked, half assertive, and half compassionate.

Garrett still refused to look at her. He resisted the urge to shout, or otherwise flay her with his cruel tongue and biting words. Instead, he grimaced, and stared upward at the cobweb-coated ceiling above them. Knave. Charlatan. Murderer. All accusations he'd been saddled with over the years, and all more or less true. Others, saw more in him. They saw a hero, a chosen one who could deliver this foul world from the brink of disaster. These portrayals too, held grains of truth--however small. 

But in truth, the Master Thief, acted of his own accord. 

He did as he pleased, and damn the consequences. Killing Karras, the Trickster. Saving the City, nay, the world, from their madness. It had all been done, for personal reasons. Garrett, was a survivor. And if the rest of the city survived along with him, that was acceptable. But it didn't make him a hero. Nor did it make him a malevolent demon of the night to be feared. He, was what he chose to be. Nothing more.

"No. I've been like this for as long as I can remember," Garrett finally spoke. "I'm nothing like you. And you're nothing like me."

"Be that as it may, I DO want to change an unjust world, Garrett! I can't stand all the pain and injustice that pollutes this place!" Gwenevere proclaimed, her face twisted in emotional anguish. She'd seen more suffering and death than any girl of eighteen should ever be privy to, and it was silently killing her from the inside. 

Garrett sneered at her. 

"It's the City. Get used to it or leave," he snapped coldly, masking his growing interest and to a lesser extent, concern for her. Like a beautiful flower struggling to grow within this place, the thief knew this girl too would be trampled if she remained much longer. 

Gwenevere's eyes widened in response to his bitter statement. 

"What?! But I can't go! I'm your student now! I made a commitment." 

"You didn't commit yourself kid. You begged. Basso bought your doe-eyed charms and paid me to train you, even though you clearly have no promise or motivation to become a thief," Garrett barked. "And just so you know, you're probably gonna get yourself killed."

He turned away, leaving her stunned into silence. For a time. As the thief began  to exit the dormitories, Gwenevere's soft voice reached his ears.

"We're all gonna die one day." 

Her unexpected words caused Garrett to halt outright. He turned slowly, and glared down at the girl through his venin green prosthetic. 

"What did you just say?" he hissed. 

Gwenevere, didn't even flinch this time. Whatever remained unsaid, it far outweighed her uncertainty. 

"Death finds us all eventually," she croaked. "But it's what we choose to do before we die that matters. If I go out trying to help people, trying to steal bread for a mother and her children who can't eat...then that will be enough for me. I'll know I lived a good life." 

Garrett stared transfixed upon her, hardly believing how noble this girl truly was. When he'd first encountered this precarious, genial young lady, she'd been jumping at her own shadow. The thief thought he had her pegged as just another pampered snob. But for some inexplicable reason, he'd gotten everything wrong about her. He stared down at Gwenevere, wordlessly watching as that ineffable thirst for purpose and justice shimmered like diamonds within her eyes. Garrett did not feel his lips move, as a grumbling modicum of decision eked its way off his tongue. 

"Gwenevere. You don't have to die," he stated, in a low, hesitant voice. 

"What?" Gwenevere blinked, her face contorted into a half-stunned stupor at his proclamation. 

"Look. It seems as though you've got your mind set on this. Not that I approve, but..."

"But?" Gwenevere stepped closer, her body trembling in anticipation. 

A part of Garrett wondered still, how he'd allowed a simple sack of gold to effectivly control him to this extent. But something was beginning to tease and irritate the far reaches of his subconscious. Was this even about his arrangement with Basso anymore, or the gold? Was there perhaps another reason why the stubborn criminal continued to endure the exasperating chatter of this skinny little imp child?

Such wonderings, troubled him greatly. But Garrett did his best to ignore them. For now, he had a new apprentice to teach. 

"If you listen to me, if you learn to do this right, I can keep you alive."


	13. The Training Begins

The full moon was pale ivory that night, shimmering like a crystalized beacon against the frozen sea of stars. Garrett sat in focused silence, staring pensively at the map in front of him. Looking Glass Jewelers. It had been years since he had broken into that place, thus the newly updated map he had procured. The shop had since installed a series of air shafts, and the thief was intending to use them to his full advantage. Quill in hand, he began to mark his intended route through that maze of iron shafts and updated security systems. Two more days remained until he would pilfer every round and lovely bauble from within that place. Garrett wasn't the least bit concerned over this upcoming heist. What did trouble him, however, was the job to follow.

From across the room, he could hear Gwenevere. In just a few short days, the real work would begin. Garrett had always enjoyed a good challenge, but molding that graceless tart into anything remotely comparable to a real thief? Now that, was going to be tricky.  
He glanced over at the girl, annoyed by all the ruckus she was making. How she managed to make so much noise with so little around her had always been an absolute mystery. The thief turned to look at her as her struggles and grunts of frustration grew more obnoxious.

"Stop it," he demanded, in a level, uninterested voice.

Gwenevere spun around, causing her short skirt to momentarily ride up her thighs, revealing more of them than she had ever intended. Seeing this, Garrett abruptly turned away, shielding his eyes with his hand. Or rather, concealing the slight blush that the sight of her forbidden flesh had caused to dart across his unsuspecting face.

"Garrett? Am I bothering you?" she asked in that whiny, yet inexplicably enduring tone.

"Yes, you're bothering me!" he snapped. "What have I told you about that outfit? Just because you're not on a job, doesn't mean you should be wearing that."

"My outfit?" Gwenevere's eyes grew wide. "But the new one got all dirty! It's being washed right now. And besides, I like this outfit! It's pretty."

Garrett looked down at his map again and scowled. She could say that again.

"Isn't it just a little uncomfortable?" he asked, projecting more than a few of those strange, nagging emotions he had been feeling towards the young Simmons runaway. Gwenevere giggled.

"Of course not, silly! It's silk!" she stepped away from whatever she had been doing, and marched right up to the situated thief. "See? Feel how soft it is," she offered, holding out the rim of her skirt for Garrett. He retained his discomfort.

"I'd rather not. There'd be no point to it."

"But why does everything need to have a point?" Gwenevere cocked her head. "I just want you to touch it. Why can't you at least humor me a little?"

"Because," Garrett finally looked up at her, "that's not the sort of thing a thief should be wearing."

The young woman pondered this for a moment, looking up at the ceiling of the clocktower. Her index finger was planted against her bottom lip.

"Well, what should I be wearing then?" she asked.

Garrett glowered up at her. Now, she was just seeking attention, and it was painfully obvious.

"You already know the answer to that, Gwenevere. Something dark. Something comfortable and easy to move in. Being a thief is about not getting caught. That harlot outfit, is for the exact opposite purpose."

He could feel himself growing leery of her effect on him once more.

"So, I should dress like you!" the young woman chirruped.

"In a matter of speaking..." Garrett grumbled.

Gwenevere went quiet, the first inklings of a new idea beginning to take form within her playful mind. Then, she asked the fateful question.

"Can I try your cloak on again?"

The thief gaped up at her in unwavering disbelief, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

"What?! No, of course not!" he snapped. "Why would you even consider asking me that?"

Gwenevere appeared hurt for a moment, but she quickly grew jovial again as her new idea began to flourish and grow. Branching paths, and new and exciting outcomes were beginning to take root.

"Garrett, how come you never take it off of your own volition?"

"I do. When I'm asleep," he responded gruffly.

"But, we're inside now. There's no rain, or guards, or anything. C'mon! Just take it off!" she urged, taking a step closer. There was now a lustful twinkle in her eyes, and it disturbed the thief greatly.

"No," Garrett refused, the word icy and blunt as it left his mouth. But Gwenevere's playful side was extra powerful that night, and she wasn't about to take no for an answer.

"Lemme see that sticky-outie hair of yours again!" she demanded with a giggle.

Garrett was flabbergasted. He struggled to get out of his chair, but the young woman side-stepped him and reached for the dark hood. He sharply pushed her hand away.

"Back off, brat!"

The candlelight danced and flickered across Gwenevere's fiery locks as she reached out, and tugged at the hood with her other hand. Once again, Garrett fought to deflect her.

"Come on! It looks so soft and warm. Just let me wear it for one night!"

"No!" he shouted, slapping her hands away. Gwenevere recoiled, her eyes glassy and wide as she proceeded to rub her hands together.

"B-but...i-it's so cold Garrett..." she whimpered, her teeth beginning to chatter a bit.

The thief's harsh gaze locked up at her pitiful words, leaving him temporarily blindsided. His hardened features thawed into an expression of great surprise. And perhaps, even a dash of pity.

"Gwenevere, why didn't you tell me you were cold?" he asked, concern seasoning his every syllable. "If I'd known, then maybe I-"

"-Gotcha!" she cheered, dropping her ruse and lurching forward to tug at the hood again.

Unfortunately, it was still attached to a long billowing cloak-and Garrett was sitting on that at the moment. The weight difference between Garrett and Gwenevere caused her actions to drag her down as the hood refused to come free. Garrett tensed, as the young woman did a rather clumsy faceplant into his chest. That was when the chair topped over, sending them both to the floor. Instantly, the harsh landing was disrupted by something far more shocking. Thief and noble lay there, staring at each other in blatant shock. Gwenevere's lips parted, her face almost glowing from her bright red blush. Garrett stared up at her with a similar expression. His hood was off, leaving his messy dark brown hair visible.

"I'm..." Gwenevere started, trying to apologize. But she was breathing far too heavily for any words to come eking out.

She felt Garrett twitch beneath her. She couldn't tell if he was trying to dislodge her, or something else. Regardless, he still refused to speak. Her eyes were large, glassy green saucers against a backdrop of low candlelight. They bore into the thief, completely captivated. Smitten beyond any reprieve.

As much as she didn't want to, Gwenevere hesitantly slid her body off of his, and stood. She offered a hand to Garrett, along with an apologetic little smile.

"You okay?" she grinned. Garrett sat up, and hastened to tug the hood back over his hair.

"I'm fine!" he barked, standing on his own. "No thanks to you!"

Gwenevere's smile crumbled into a disappointed frown.

"I'm sorry," she pleaded. "I didn't mean to make you fall, or...or to upset you. I just wanted to play!"

"You're too old for that nonsense! How the hell do you expect to become a disciplined vigilante, if you can't even repress such childish urges?" the thief chastised her.

He turned the chair back upright, and took a seat. His bi-colored eyes scanned over his new maps, whilst his sharp features remained flustered and aggressive. Gwenevere cleared her throat.

"I mean it! I'm really, really sorry, Garrett!" she whined. Garrett rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger, quill still in hand.

"I couldn't care less, Gwenevere," he sighed. "So why don't you go be sorry somewhere else? As always, you're bothering me."

So, upon receipt of that heart shattering cruelty, Gwenevere lowered her head and retired to the Hammerite dormitories. Once she was gone, Garrett finally looked up from his work. He rubbed the small bump on his head that he had sustained from the fall, and groaned. Looking back down at the map, the thief sighed hard. Though he would never convey it directly, the expression on his face spoke volumes. He was sorry, too.

***

On the day her training was to begin, Gwenevere was up long before the sun. She sat huddled in the darkness of that chilly abyss, contemplating the morning ahead from her favorite bend in the stairway. In her lap, sat a loosely-arranged sack of goods. Six apples, a pound of flour, and two containers of shoe polish. It was all she'd managed to swipe while Garrett yet slept. The streets were devoid of any vendors at that ungodly hour, and Gwenevere was still far too clueless to use a set of lockpicks this early in her training. Thus, it was the objects forgotten on porches or in crates, which were taken in the night by this dedicated little girl creature.

Hours passed, and the girl's head bobbed and ducked as she struggled to stay awake. At some point, her heavy eyelids became too much to bear, and sleep finally succeeded in overtaking her. Through dreams of clambering up twisted black iron gates, and slinking down corridors lined with bright and gaudy wallpaper, something harsh and corporeal managed to shake Gwenevere from the depths of her slumber.

"Gwenevere. Get up," Garrett's impatient voice hung like a dense mist over her, as Gwenevere's mind struggled against surreality. The world around her appeared to be smudged. She looked up at her mentor, and gave him a dopey smile.

"Oh. Good morning, Garrett."

"Morning? It's three in the afternoon, Gwenevere," the criminal frowned.

"Oh, that's nice," she whispered, her eyelids beginning to droop again.

Garrett jostled her shoulder, with more force than before. Gwenevere's eyes flew open, and something between a gurgle and a groan exited her mouth.

"Are you up for this, or not?" he demanded. Gwenevere blinked.

"Hmm? Up for what?"

"Your training," the thief stretched the word, trying to sound as patronizing as possible. "I told you we'd start today, did I not?"

At the very mention of her training, Gwenevere snapped to attentiveness.

"Oh yeah! How could I have forgotten that?!" she shook her head with a smirk.

Reaching into the bag between her legs, the young woman produced one of her stolen apples, and handed it to Garrett. The thief stared at the ripe red fruit as though it had grown lips and begun speaking to him.

"Why are you giving me this?" he asked, perplexed. Gwenevere appeared confused.

"I thought students were supposed to give apples to their teachers?" she replied. Garrett snatched the apple away from her hand, and gave the girl a stern look.

"Once again, and say it with me: You are not my student," he groused.

"Well I brought you an apple all the same!" she trilled.

Garrett said nothing, as he began polishing the sweet red fruit upon his cloak. Although he'd never outright admit it, he did love apples.

"You wanna get started now?"

Gwenevere began to bounce up and down with glee. She stood from the staircase, saluting the thief with a big smile upon her face.

"Yes sir, mister Garrett sir!"

Garrett crooked an eyebrow at her.

"Sir?" he scoffed. "Garrett is just fine. Formalities are for YOUR kind. Now come on."

He motioned for the girl to follow him deeper into the tower. Gwenevere skipped merrily behind him, looking around at the still gears and rotting planks. Garrett pushed aside a tattered Hammerite banner, to reveal a small study just beyond. Atop a rather rickety wooden table, sat a pair of stone cups and platters. Each were filled with an assortment of cheap food, ranging from dried meat, to small slices of carrot and potato.

"Sit down and eat," Garrett ordered. "You'll need your energy for training. Especially since it looks like you didn't get too much sleep last night."

Gwenevere cringed at little at the meager portions in front of her. She took a cautious sip from her cup before answering him.

"I did sleep, at least," she murmured. Garrett stared at her as he sat.

"Maybe it's for the best," he confirmed. "You'll be needing to abandon that diurnal lifestyle of yours if you're gonna be out all night."

Gwenevere began picking at the morsels on her plate, toying with the hard strip of meat before gulping it up. The gamey, salty flavor almost caused her to gag outright. Garrett fought to conceal a sparse smirk as he chewed his own fare without incident.

"Like it?" he asked.

"Not particularly," Gwenevere moaned. "What IS this?!"

"Dried meat," the thief responded in a snarky tone.

"I gathered that, but what sort of animal is it from?" the doe-eyed maiden clarified. Garrett shrugged.

"Damned if I know. It was free, and easy to carry," the hooded rogue cut into one of his potatoes, "here's a quick lesson for you: Take what you can, and don't be stingy. Thieves can't afford to be picky eaters, Gwenevere."

"Well, could you at least steal something palatable?" the disgusted girl smacked her lips, trying desperately to get the dreadful taste out of her mouth.

"Now that's gratitude for ya," her mentor groused. "I go and even the score, and this is how you respond?"

"What score?" Gwenevere's expression was one of abject confusion.

"You stole breakfast for me that one time," Garrett replied, shoving a bite of potato into his mouth.

For a moment, the girl just stared at him. She'd been living with this man for almost two weeks, and yet she still had yet to understand how he functioned. Garrett's world seemed to be a constant jumble of debts and favors, a loveless and harsh existence wherein nothing was ever endearing or free. And while Gwenevere could at least understand such an outlook, she was still having much difficulty wrapping her mind around one thing: Even if kindness was a nonexistent luxury for the thief, surely, he at least knew what it was? Garrett was, after all, one of the most intelligent and methodical creatures Gwenevere had ever chanced upon.

"I didn't do that so you would owe me a meal," she spoke in a concerned, worried voice. "I did it out of kindness."

"I don't need your charity," Garrett grunted through a mouthful of food.

Gwenevere pouted, pushing the veggies around her plate with her fork. Some of them were discolored, others had lost their form completely, resembling sludgy, multi-colored vomit.

"Well, if you won't accept my gift, can we at least take turns stealing meals for one another?" she offered.

"I'd rather not," Garrett remarked, wiping his mouth with the edge of his cloak. "It's too risky sending you out with all those bounty hunters sniffing for you. Besides..."

He shot her an unnerved, yet knowing look. Gwenevere didn't get it.

"Besides what?" she cocked her head. Garrett groaned.

"Besides, you'd probably just steal cakes and pies and call it a meal."

"Well, what's a matter with that?" she asked.

"You're gonna get fat if you keep eating those things," the criminal stated callously. To his surprise, the girl merely shrugged.

"Eh, small price to pay."

"Thieves shouldn't be fat, Gwenevere."

"Basso's a fat thief, and no one gives him grief for it," Gwenevere countered. Garrett glared at her, knife in hand.

"Basso, is not a real thief. He's a fence. The lazy taffer hasn't done any successful fieldwork on his own since before you were born. Now shut up and eat."

Gwenevere started to protest, but the fierce glimmer within Garrett's metallic eye silenced her. She begrudgingly began picking and nibbling at her lunch, smacking her lips and gagging every so often on the limp greenery, and poor cuts of mystery meat.  
"Close your mouth when you chew, Gwenevere," she heard the thief reprimand her. He then went on to outwardly wonder how a noble's girl could possibly possess such atrocious mannerisms. Gwenevere, took offense to that little jab.

"Well, maybe I don't wanna be a noble's girl," she retorted. "Maybe, just maybe, I'm my own girl, and thus not defined by my environment or bloodline."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that..." Garrett grumbled, taking a bite of the apple Gwenevere had given him. Immediately, her expression lit up.

"Hey! My apple! You do like it!" she cheered. Garrett hastened to conceal the fruit back within the folds of his cloak. He glowered at Gwenevere, teeth clenched beneath taut and pallid lips.

"I never said that!" he hissed. And Gwenevere, giggled even more.

***

After lunch, Garrett began his first lesson. Taking her deeper than ever before into the very foundations of the clocktower, the thief ushered his charge to a locked doorway. There, he handed her a small leather-bound case. Gwenevere took the object, her hands trembling with anticipation.

"What's this?" she questioned.

"Open it and see," Garrett replied. And Gwenevere, did just that.

Inside, were a pair of lockpicks. They winked and twinkled up at her in the low light. Gwenevere's eyes sparkled with joy, the eagerness and delight she felt within that moment incomparable to anything else she'd experienced within this murky city. Finally, she was moving towards her goal of becoming a vigilante. These unassuming metal tools, were her first step down what was destined to be a long and arduous road. But the young woman relished the journey ahead. She would do whatever was necessary, in order to liberate the downtrodden and destitute. To liberate herself.

"Wow...G-Garrett..." she stammered, brushing a strand of red hair from her eyes. She then closed the case, and clutched it close to her heart. Beaming up at her teacher through overcome, gregarious emerald eyes. "Th-thank you so much!"

"There's no need for such pleasantries," the thief groused. "These are necessary for the job, and that's it. So don't you go reading too much into it, okay?"

"I won't," she smiled.

Garrett turned his attention back to the locked doorway.

"Now listen very carefully, Gwenevere. Like many things, lockpicking is a process. Each successful heist is just the completion of several, easier jobs. To become a successful thief-or in your case, vigilante, one must learn how to successfully perform a variety of different tasks."

Gwenevere nodded, hanging onto his every word. Then, a sensation reminiscent of guilt threatened to engulf her, as she held those lovely lockpicks between her thin fingers.  
"Garrett?" she peeped.

"Does this pertain to the lesson at hand?" he answered gruffly. Gwenevere shook her head, prompting the master thief to roll his eyes. "Then don't bother. This is neither the time nor place for idle chatter."

"B-but I just wanted to apologize for my behavior as of late!" Gwenevere pressed. Garrett sneered down at her.

"What?"

The girl shuffled her feet, her disposition meek and hesitant to continue. When she finally summoned enough courage to meet his domineering gaze, Gwenevere's face was reminiscent of a guilty child's.

"I-I'm sorry. About trying to take your hood off the other night, and causing you to fall," she bit her bottom lip, as cold dread began seeping into her veins. It warned her not to continue, telling her that some things could never be forgiven. But the vivacious creature chose to ignore the warning. "And...and I'm also sorry for when I asked about your eye. I know that really upset you, and not a day goes by that I don't feel guilty about hurting you. I wish I could take it back, but...but I can't..."

His reaction, was far less intense than she'd feared. Garrett stared down at her through empty, unfeeling eyes, his face momentarily betraying the mixture of complicated emotions and scars that he always tried desperately to hide from others. Then, just when she was certain he wasn't going to continue, three simple words exited his thin, chapped lips.

"Forget about it."

"Garrett?" the girl's face twisted into a visage of concern. "Aren't you...angry about all that stuff?"

"Do you want me to be?" he countered, paying more attention to the sealed metal door than her emotional turmoil.

"No, I suppose not," Gwenevere bleated.

"Well, then let's concentrate on today's lesson," he snapped.

Gwenevere held the rough edges of the silver lockpicks between her fingers, gulping down a wad of bitter nerves. She could feel Garrett behind her, his smoky musk permeating her sensitive nostrils. His presence was making it difficult for her to concentrate; especially on a new and unknown task. Finally, with a disappointed groan, her mentor intercepted.

"Do you need me to go over it again?" he patronized.

"N-no Garrett! That's ok. I'm just..." she pondered over her situation again. The darkened keyhole before her seemed to be watching her through an invisible eye, taunting her almost as much as the cynical thief.

"Then get started raking those pins!" he demanded with a snort.

"What are pins?" Gwenevere asked. Garrett released an exasperated moan.

"Pins are short pieces of metal of varying lengths which prevent a lock from opening without the correct key," he clarified.

"Oh. So why don't we just steal the correct key instead?" she argued. Garrett just gaped at her cheery little expression.

"How dumb are you?" he inquired bluntly. The girl batted her eyelids in puzzlement.

"How exactly is asking a question considered dumb?" Gwenevere asked. "I mean, this isn't really common knowledge, ya know? It's like they say: There are no dumb questions, just dumb answers," she concluded that statement with a satisfied dip of her head.

The thief rubbed his temples. Garrett had dealt with his fair share of difficult characters, but sometimes, Gwenevere was more than even he could take. That irritating cleverness of hers had caught him off-guard yet again. Unable or unwilling to admit that anything pertaining to lockpicking indeed wasn't common knowledge, Garrett deflected her words with another of his petty jabs.

"No, Gwenevere. There are in fact, dumb questions. Usually, they're asked by dumb people. Or naïve little princesses who've strayed too far from their respective castles."

"Are you being mean because of what I did before? 'Cus I said I was sorry," the bubbly redhead frowned. Garrett scowled down at her.

"I'm not being 'mean', Gwenevere. I am trying to teach you how to pick a lock. So, let's just get back to the lesson at hand, alright?"

"Fine. Be like that," Gwenevere pouted.

Garrett scratched the back of his cowl, wondering how in the world he was going to teach such a dense and sheltered kid like her anything. Never before had the prospect of returning a sackful of gold sounded so rewarding. Unfortunately, the master thief had long since spent every cent of Basso's bribe money. Hindsight, truly was a curse to live with.

But as he continued to watch Gwenevere struggle and mull over the impossible task before her; as he witnessed her clueless and lost expression twist and intensify across her heart-shaped face, something inexplicable came over him. Perhaps it was mere stress, or even impatience which prompted Garrett's next actions. Or perhaps, it was something else entirely.

"You know, this early in your training it's common for an apprentice to require assistance," he intervened.

Gwenevere slowly turned her eyes upward to meet his. She gawked up at him from over her shoulder, her mouth hanging limply from her face. The moonlighter's unlikely empathy had rendered her speechless.

"R-really? That would be great!" she stuttered. Garrett offered no further words, as he proceeded to lean forward against her back. His chin now rested just above Gwenevere's right ear. She gasped as his calloused hands took up her silky digits. The thief traced her tiny hands, sliding his fingers into place until they covered each of her own. Then, he began to press.

"What are you doing?" she asked, both flustered and intrigued.

"Just let them go limp..." Garrett murmured.

His hot breath caught the edge of the girl creature's earlobe, causing her to shudder. Gwenevere felt as her entire face grew a wild shade of scarlet, and against her own desires and understanding, her body began to soften. Her fingers now dangled like limp vines against his own hands. Feeling this change, Garrett's eyes flashed, and he began his instruction.

"You need to insert the straight tool here, and apply some pressure," he demonstrated, using the tension wrench in her left hand. Gwenevere's green eyes watched his demonstration, absorbing every visual into memory. "You do this in order to hold the pins in place."

Gwenevere felt captivated, watching through astonished eyes. She felt such excitement, feeling as he worked fluidly through her. Garrett had to press firmly against her fingers and the handle of the picks in order to successfully demonstrate each technique, and at times it did get a tad uncomfortable. But Gwenevere didn't mind. The entire experience was far too enrapturing for her to mind.

"Next, you need to determine which way the cylinder must be turned to unlock the lock," the thief continued. "I've commonly used this particular lock, so I already know which way you turn the key to open it. But I'm not going to tell you Gwenevere; that would ruin your training," he explained in a stoic, almost deadpan sort of way.

"No fair!" she protested, shooting her mentor a flustered expression. Garrett glowered scornfully at her.

"If you're going to be childish, we can stop right now," he growled. "Now listen: In the event that you don't know which way the cylinder turns, you can always use the tension wrench to apply pressure to it in either direction."

"Oh?" Gwenevere appeared hopeful again.

"Yeah. See, the cylinder will only turn a fraction of an inch or so before it stops. Try to feel the firmness of that stop. If you turn the cylinder the wrong way, the stop should feel very firm and stiff. If you turn it the right way, there should be a bit more give. The amount of pressure required will vary from lock to lock, and from pin to pin. So, this may require some trial and error," Garrett elaborated. "Start gently, though."

"I see," Gwenevere nodded, chewing on her hair again.

"Also, some locks, such as padlocks, will open regardless of which way the cylinder is turned."

"Good to know."

"Alright. I'm giving you your hands back, Gwenevere. Try to do it as I told you."

Garrett released his hold on her, and took a step back. He crossed his arms and gazed upon his apprentice with pensive eyes, as she attempted to unlock the door. Gwenevere scrunched up her face in concentration, her little pink tongue poking past her lips as she began to work. Placing her right hand against the doorframe for support, she inserted and positioned the tension wrench. Next, she turned it to the left slightly, feeling as the pressure intensified. Obviously, that was the wrong way. This time, she turned the wrench right, feeling as the cylinder gyrated a bit before the tension increased.

"I think I found the right direction, Garrett!" she cheered. Garrett's solemn eyes danced. Indeed, she had. Gwenevere continued to look up at him, awaiting further instruction. "Do I take it out now?"

"No. Once all the pins inside the lock have been picked, the tension wrench will then be used to turn the cylinder and open the lock," he explained. Gwenevere nodded, watching as Garrett took control of her hands a second time.

"I'm assuming you're right handed, given the way you position yourself and such?"

"Um, yes..." the girl muttered, feeling a tad overwhelmed at having him so close to her. Although she didn't quite understand why.

"As I thought," Garrett muttered, sticking the half-diamond pick into the keyhole. "You'll use the betty here, to do most of the work. Once the pick is inside the keyhole, you should be able to press up and feel the individual pins with the tip. You should be able to push them up and feel them spring back down when you release the pressure. Identify which one is the hardest to push up on. If they're all very easy to push up, then turn the tension wrench more to increase the pressure. If one won't go up at all, ease the tension until you can push it up. Later in your training, I'll show you how to rake the pins instead. There are certain situations in which this may work better."

When Garrett had concluded his wordy instruction, he once again encouraged Gwenevere's hands forward. Pressing upward on each pin, Gwenevere was able to feel little differences with each one. The pins towards the back were much tighter, she found. So, as per Garrett's advice, she worked these last, easing and increasing the tension as needed. A time or two, her hand slipped, causing all of her tedious work to come undone. From behind her, the thief would release subtle groans and frustrated mutters, but his disappointment only fueled the girl onward.

Aside from the kindly maid, Olaura, not one person had believed Gwenevere capable of anything noteworthy. And Gwenevere, was determined to prove them all wrong. She would save this city, she would liberate herself from Simmons forever, and find her people at long last. Then, maybe then, she could finally discover why the lord of chaos had orchestrated her birth. Why Simmons wanted her blood so badly. Sweat was now trickling down Gwenevere's brow, as she struggled to unlock the door. And when it inevitably came, the sound of that beautiful click brought forth a sensation of unspeakable triumph. Her eyes luminous and proud, Gwenevere reached for the handle, and opened the large metal door with a loud, resounding screech. She looked back over her shoulder at Garrett, who was watching her through a pair of unimpressed, menacing eyes.

"Garrett! Garrett, did'ja see?" she hopped up and down. "Garrett, I did it!"

"Yeah, I noticed," he commented. "Not bad, for your first attempt."

"Thank you..." Gwenevere blushed again.

"But next time, try to get it open faster."

His criticism caused the girl's cheeks to inflate with hot air, as she leered up at him. Garrett nearly chuckled at how ridiculous she appeared.

"I'm going to start giving you a list of exercises to practice each day," he continued. This week, you are to practice picking locks, obviously."

"So that's it then? That's all you're gonna teach me?"

"For today, yes. Since someone slept in until three, our lesson had to be cut short. It's nearly nightfall, and us real thieves have places to be," Garrett retorted. Gwenevere made a face.

"So, what am I supposed to do with the rest of the evening? I'm not exactly sleepy yet."

"Why don't you start practicing with those picks I gave you then?" her mentor snapped. "After all, the clocktower's a big place. I'm sure you can find something to unlock around here."

"You're tellin' me!" Gwenevere beamed, his dry wit restoring her positive attitude. "Did you know that there's a rickety old elevator down there?"

"Yes, I'm well aware," Garrett's lips tightened in annoyance. "Anyway, to return to my original point, you should be able to find several training opportunities, even when I'm not around to instruct you."

"For example?" Gwenevere craned her head to the side in bewilderment. The wily rogue thought for a moment before answering her, then began to grin.

"Take the elevator and see if you can find something to open with those picks. There might even be some interesting stuff down there that I've forgotten about."

"Yes," the girl bowed her head, feeling for her new pair of glinting metal picks. Opening another door without help would certainly prove challenging, but Gwenevere promised herself that she'd give it her very best shot. "I'll make getting those doors unlocked my number one priority, master."

The thief stared at her as though Gwenevere had just sprouted wings and a tail when that simple word exited her lips.

"What did you just call me?" he questioned, his eyes wide and baffled.

"I called you my master," Gwenevere repeated herself.

"Why?"

"Well, it's just a matter of respect is all," she shuffled her feet, looking down at the floor in embarrassment.

Respect. Now there was something Garrett wasn't in the least bit used to. Master thief though he was, the misanthropic rogue was far from admired. His heists and deeds were more infamous than revered, even among his fellow thieves. There was always someone attempting to outdo him, kill him, or pose as him in order to get hold of a score. Aside from the few passionate fans of his work, such as Basso or Jack Danger, Garrett was a mostly hated, envied man by his fellow lowlifes. Some considered him pretentious and arrogant, a rumor spanning back to his youth, when he'd refused to join the organized crime racket. Others, were merely jealous of his renowned successes.

But then, there was everyone else. Those who either feared him as a wanted outlaw, or those who loved him simply because they did not know him. And there were a surprising number in the latter category. Whispers from Dayport all the way down to the East River, spoke of a hero, draped in robes black as night. Ballads composed by bards with far too much time and far too little talent, told tale of the enigmatic moonlight man, who had saved their poor city from ruin time and time again. Garrett had to wonder, if they would still sing his praises, if they indeed knew that their beloved savior, was one of the most wanted men in the entire city.

He looked down at that whimsy-eyed maiden, adoration and candor thick within her cherubic features. As cynical as he was, it was beyond evident in that moment. Gwenevere, thought the world of him. Her gushing awe rendered him speechless, and silence passed like an unseen gale between their forms. When at last her bell-like voice permeated the surrounding haze, it nearly caused Garrett to jump.

"You don't...have a problem with that, do you Garrett?" she whimpered, her eyes as round as saucers. Gleaming, like two fireflies in the darkness. Garrett hesitated before answering.

"Actually, I do," he breathed heavily. "As I've told you before, calling me by name works just fine. There's no need to complicate things."

"I see..." the young woman hung her head in crestfallen defeat. "Well, thanks for today. I'd better get to my room and stuff..."

Gwenevere turned on her heel and started to head back towards the dormitories, when the thief called after her one last time.

"Gwenevere?"

She turned, looking up at him through dazzling green expectant eyes.

"Yesh?"

The moment her sparkling irises found his, Garrett felt his entire mouth go dry. Whatever meaningful sentiment he'd thought to covey, seeped between the folds of his mind like sand drawn back by an angry sea. Lost forever to the depths of his lament and ceaseless torment. As the initial words faded from his conscious memory, the thief defaulted to his usual greedy and callous nature.

"If you do find anything of note down there, it's still mine. So don't go keeping your findings from me, got it?"

"Yes master," the girl grumbled. When Garrett scowled down at her, Gwenevere quickly corrected herself, "I-I mean, yes Garrett..."


	14. Into the Maw

For the next few days, on into her second week in Garrett's custody, Gwenevere dedicated herself to the art of picking locks. She opened every door, chest, and cabinet she could find, until her fingers were raw and red from her efforts. Blisters and callouses began to develop upon her once flawless fingers, her nails chipped and worn down to the quick in some places. But if the young woman had learned anything over the course of her short, yet harrowing life, it was that physical pain, was often temporary. It was the emotional suffering, which one had to be cautious of.   
Upon an otherwise uneventful afternoon, Garrett left to collect some information from Basso, leaving his boisterous ward in charge of the clocktower. Dedicated and eager, Gwenevere took the opportunity to explore, and hopefully, discover more locks to pick. The elevator jangled and protested as she rode it down into the forgotten bowels of that place. It made her heart race, and for a moment, she was certain the entire lift would plummet her into the abyss. But the Hammerites lived up to their ingenuity, and despite the metallic groans and worrying jerks which accompanied her decent, Gwenevere made it safely down into the depths of the clocktower.   
The aspiring vigilante did indeed find much to do down there. Dust and cobwebs had overtaken much of the lower levels, and many of the once sophisticated mechanisms were water-logged and ruined. Because of the baron's decree, the means of repairing and restoring the clocktower were nonexistent. Thus, standing water from rainstorms long since passed had corroded much of the tower's impressive organs beyond repair.   
She waved hello to a foraging rat, as the creature stopped to clean its whiskers atop a rather large machine. A faded metal plaque reading, COAL DISPENSER, hung precariously from loose, rusty screws. Another plaque, this one reading, FOREMAN'S OFFICE, hung to her left. Gwenevere ventured into the forgotten area, only to discover a series of moldy volumes littering the remains of a decaying wooden bookcase. Those she could still read were squishy in her hands, their pages turning to mush when she attempted to turn them. The entire area smelled of very old stone, and wet dog.   
Using her trusty new lockpicks, Gwenevere sprung the door at the far end of the room. But unlike the others before it, this door bore extra locks and chains around its handle. A part of her began to wonder why Garrett kept these doors locked to begin with. Surely he'd been down here before? So what lurked beyond these sealed passages, and why did he want her to discover it? Was it some sort of test, or another mindless errand meant to keep her exuberant mind occupied? Gwenevere felt herself shrug as she started through the liberated doorway. There was only one way to find out.   
"Oh wow..." she heard herself gasp, as she entered this new hallway.   
Though it was impossible to tell how or when, it became instantly apparent that a great explosion had once taken place. Everyone, from the most influential noble, right down to the most ludicrous fool, had heard the stories. Of how the magnificent clocktower of Stonemart, had simply fallen over one night, fifteen years ago. Since then, the Hammerites had endeavored to both rebuild their cherished monument, and to bring the miscreant responsible to justice. After all, clocktowers don't just collapse on their own. Sabotage, although never proven, was the most widely-accepted theory regarding the tower's destruction.   
Fortunately, very few onlookers were hurt by its collapse, and none had been killed. But the same could not be said for those unfortunate Hammerites who'd dedicated their very souls to maintaining the impressive structure. The worst carnage occurred in the control room, the deepest part of the tower. And Gwenevere, was now gazing at the remains of that tragedy.  
The Hammers had done a fantastic job of restoring the obliterated core back to its former glory. Surveying the area beneath her, Gwenevere couldn't see any evidence of the past disaster. The entire area, had an air of stoic peace about it. But it was the tall, dignified pewter tombs that caught her eye, and a tear of bereaved lament soon followed. Before the baron's detested decree, before their banishment from this place, the Hammerites had constructed a memorial for their fallen brethren.   
Now, as her verdant eyes took in the profoundness of it all, Gwenevere too found herself wondering just who could have been responsible for this terrible tragedy.   
But something glinting within her peripheral vision distracted her mind from such morose speculations. Slowly, she turned her head and glanced down the opposite hallway. There, situated atop a moldy alter, sat a familiar sword.   
Gwenevere's eyes narrowed at the sight, crestfallen woe warping into a chilling sensation of unease, as she made her way towards the weapon with reluctant, heavy steps. As she reached it, a most horrible sensation of dread swept over her. Gwenevere felt her heart leap into her throat, as her eyes confirmed that this was indeed, her father's stolen relic. It was ironic--blasphemous even--to see that odious blade atop a Hammerite alter.   
She plucked up the sword, feeling as its weight pulled at every sinew and tendon in her arm. It was heavy, cold and cruel within her tiny hands. Gwenevere was no warrior. Truth be told, this was the first time she'd ever so much as held a weapon of any kind. But the sword, was a long-lost, and cherished family possession. Somehow, she had to return it to its rightful owners. The girl creature shuddered. Doing so, would indeed be dangerous.   
She had no intention of going back to that mystical place so soon, even though it called out to her every day. Pleading for her to return. Her green eyes glistened in the musty darkness, as she eyed the sleek black sword. Now, at the very least, she had an excuse.   
But something still troubled the girl, lingering at the back of her mind like a sinister pair of hungry eyes. Why was her father's sword here of all places? The Hammerites would have recognized it, surely. Cleansed away its perceived wickedness with holy water, before melting it into nothingness with fire and forge. There wasn't any conceivable excuse for the weapon's survival within this place. No divine templar of the red cloth would wittingly keep such a malevolent relic.   
A chill, raced down Gwenevere's spine, before being burned away by feverous rage. That was, unless the person who found it was a heretic. A thief. The thief, who had been occupying this tower for years. The runaway ground her teeth, as the realization finally dawned on her.   
"That night...it was you who took it..."  
***  
The warm tickles of enchanted sunbeams danced and played upon her cheeks, as Gwenevere looked up through the verdant green treetops, and smiled to herself. She had always adored the spring portion of the Maw, because it granted her a solace not found anywhere else. Though the frigid gales of impending winter howled, the world dismal and frostbitten, this place remained forever green. Forever warm, and joyful. It had been many years, since last she'd come to this place seeking refuge. Few cityheads dared travel this far into the woods, and even fewer survived the trek. But this place was no more dangerous to Gwenevere, than a placid meadow of poppies.   
However, even the serenity of this magical woodland world could not keep the remorse and heartbreak from the child's mind. It had been fifteen years now, since she'd left this place. Not of her own volition, but rather the wicked promises of man's lying tongue, and the cruel iron chains that bound her still. Ever since then, there was no nature, no song. No warmth of bonfires, nor raucous and familiar bouts of song that always lasted long into the night. Even now, the forest was still, demure. The Pagans, were hiding. But to what end, the girl could not decipher.   
Trembles found her hands, as Gwenevere gripped her father's blade tighter. How would they respond, when at last they saw her again? The girl creature had long ago come to the disquieting conclusion, that they must have proclaimed her dead. If not, then what had the woodsie folk made of her disappearance? After all, she was but a child when Lord Simmons had spirited her from this place.   
Gwenevere ran her hand over the cool moss of a decomposing log. The forest had healed beautifully since that horrible night. An outsider would never have suspected the bloody terrors which had overwhelmed this place more than a decade before. Screams of both animal and man, rock and tree. Distorted mineral, shaped and corrupted to destroy the very earth which had first given it life.   
The canopy above shifted, sending a flurry of petals down into Gwenevere's ruby tresses, as she continued her stroll. Birds and small rodents darted amidst the shadows of the brush, picking at berries and fretting over their colorful plumage and coats. Their chatters and chirps resounded throughout the lower half of the spring village, filling the ligneous greensie kingdom with song.   
But all creatures fell silent, when they spotted the estranged girl making her way ever forward upon placid toes. When she at last reached the mouth of an ancient spring, Gwenevere too began to startle. Breath caught in her throat, while something akin to dread began to creep up her spine like nocturnal insects. Bracing herself for the unspeakable, the girl clutched her father's sword tighter against her chest, and turned around.   
What stood hulking yet hunched before her, was neither man nor beast. But rather, ligneous in nature. Twisted roots, near black in coloration made up most of its frightening frame, thorns curling over ligaments and branches darting outward like sinister claws. It leaned towards her, its body creaking and groaning beneath the heavy bulk of boughs and roots. Beneath a tangled mass of rotted moss and cobwebs, Gwenevere could see two eyes gleaming a vibrant yellow in the shadow of the tall trees. Though logic demanded otherwise, recognition prevailed. For the young woman did not fear this creature. His kind were a warm and reassuring sight, like relatives from afar who were seldom seen, but always anticipated. Reaching forward without hesitation, Gwenevere touched one of the great wooden horns jutting skyward from the earthen nightmare's head. And slowly, its eyes began to close.  
"Elder Treebeast...I have returned," she whispered, as the tears filled her eyes.   
Time slowed to a stagnant crawl, as the sentient tree opened its menacing eyes and faced her. There was something horrific and ancient within that sickly saffron light. Gwenevere felt petrified, wooden herself in lieu of what she was witnessing. Before her, stood a creature older than the City itself, or any of the other great marvels the Hammerites held claim to. This was a creature who had seen much death, and even more destruction. He had been there during the first cataclysm, fought alongside her ancestors as they slaughtered their sanguine-clad enemies. And now, he stood before her, wrought with a sensation of utmost betrayal and heartache. Only four guttural words echoed beneath the gnarled mass of branches and vines, but they caused the girl before him much unrest.  
"No. You have not."  
Gwenevere recoiled from the treebeast, her father's blade beginning to rattle against her chest in response to her constant shaking. She knew what this ancient sentinel meant, and she regretted that he was correct. How long, must they have been waiting, only to watch as she chose manfools over the Vine?  
"That is to say, I have come to return father's sword to the people," Gwenevere corrected her previous statement. The treebeast made a strange gurgle within his chest, the sound reminiscent of growing roots crumbling stone. Silence permeated the forest for a moment, as the creature pondered what should be done next.   
In truth, he hadn't expected her to return at all, and certainly not like this. Fifteen years, she'd been missing from this paradise, and the consequences of living amongst the disbelievers, was staggering indeed. Already, she had learned to lie, and far better than any of her kind before. They were allowed to lie, even encouraged to do so. But always in service of the Vine, in service to him. Never, directly to the forest. What was worse, the child apparently had no plans of even returning to this place.   
The treebeast groaned again--a loud, resounding outcry, before looking Gwenevere over. The luster of the Woodsie was still luminous within her eyes. Within her soul. In time, perhaps, he could convince the child to reevaluate her ambitions.   
Feeling nervous by this tension, Gwenevere proceeded to offer the blade to the creature.   
"H-here...go ahead and take it back to them. I know your kind guards them, and protects my mother's temple. M-maybe you could put it in there? I think she would want that..."  
Again, a twinge of optimism prickled at the treebeast's timber heart. If she still aspired to fulfill her mother's wishes, if the legacy she held within her quaking arms still posed value to her, then perhaps...  
Wood creaked, as the guardian of the forest lumbered towards her upon heavy, root-like limbs. His form was more menacing beneath the shadows of the ancient trees, many of them his distant ancestors. But unlike they, he had been given sentience through the Woodsie Lord, a purpose beyond that which his leafy brethren could ever understand in their mindset of perpetual silence.   
Thin brown tendons extended from the treebeast's fearsome boughs, and took up the macabre ebony blade. Gwenevere's eyes widened in stunned surprise, as he pressed the hilt against her palm, before closing her fingers around the base with genuine candor. She stared upwards at him, true confusion evident within her frightful and innocent features. But the great beast, merely smiled.   
"Keep it close, and learn to wield it," he ordered. "There is a great deal more power within that blade than you realize. In time, it may come to do more good outside the forest than within. And the same holds true for you, young seed."  
"W-what?" Gwenevere shuddered.   
The beast's great bulk heaved and creaked, as he contorted himself forward. Leaning his great head down, until it was level with her own. So large and formidable was he, that his mighty horns could have impaled her without a moment's difficulty. Thankfully, the treebeast's only intentions for this girl, were benevolent. For this was his instructed duty. The very reason for his creation.   
"Though I do not yet understand why you choose to remain within that Hammerite graveyard, I can see that your intentions are pure. Your heart longs for retribution, though not through blood or murder. There is something clever about you, child."  
Gwenevere blushed.   
"Gee, thanks," she shrugged her shoulder, brushing a strand of ruby hair from her eyes. "Nobody's ever called me that before. Most people think I'm stupid--or worse."  
"Manfools often mistake that which they cannot understand as dangerous, or foolish. This has been so, since the dawn of time," the treebeast clarified. "But we, are not so easily tricked by outward appearances or pretty words, child. I see what you really are. Who, you really are."  
The soft pink blush which had danced so gaily across Gwenevere's cheeks, dissipated into pallid terror as the rumbling sentinel conveyed these sinister truths to her. With a gulp, she took a deep breath, and started to back away from him.  
"You...know?" she gasped, feeling as her backside met with the base of a large tree. She watched as its sentient counterpart continued to grin. The expression seemed more unsettling than reassuring, when placed within the uneven, thorny maw of such a terrifying woodland nightmare.   
"There is no reason to flee, nor to fear," he reassured her. "Creature born of chaos and tree, you alone choose what to be."   
"W-whatever do you mean?" Gwenevere crooked her head. "Why are you rhyming?"  
"There are a myriad of crossroads and paths in this lifetime, and answers are such precarious things. Rarely easy, and often difficult to discover. But I encourage you to hunt for them, young seed. Take the lonesome path into the abyss, child. For it is only through our determination, or desperation, that we discover life's most well-guarded answers. And when at last you have reached your decision, I will honor it."  
In all honesty, Gwenevere was awestruck. It hadn't been the treebeast's imposing size, or formidable appearance which unnerved her, but rather, his chilling composure. The elder beast knew well what she was, yet he courted her interest in returning to the city with optimum decorum. The green-eyed maiden was not so oblivious, however. Even as she stood there beneath that lush canopy, Gwenevere could sense that the forest was suffering. She could smell the stench of terror and rot all around her, like a noxious vapor, rising from a foundry smokestack. The Pagans, needed her. The Woodsie itself, cried out in muffled whimpers for her return. Yet the stoic ancient before her, gave the girl creature's own desires precedence. But whether this was out of respect or obligation, she could not say.   
"I have not forgotten what I am, or where I come from. And I promise you, I never will," Gwenevere clarified, her tone meek yet somehow adamant. "I may yet return to this place one day. But right now, there are still things in the city that I need to do."  
Her fair response, seemed to placate the creature.   
"Then I shall pray for a satisfactory conclusion. One, that shall benefit both our causes," he affirmed. "Now come. You should see your mother's magnum opus while you're here."  
***  
Shimmering like a beacon through the silver leaves, stood the decaying remains of an old Pagan temple. Gwenevere stared up at the enormous moss-covered ruin, completely breathless. She remembered the structure as being quite large, but that had been so many years ago. Standing now beneath the majestic dwelling, the young woman could now see that it was monolithic. Its coal-black sandstone design was illuminated by the gentle sunlight, while thick beds of moss and ivy tactfully went about preserving the sacred monument. Gwenevere pressed her hands against the large stone doors, smiling at how cool and comforting they felt. Behind her, sauntered up the elder treebeast.   
"Forgive me, greensie seed," he apologized, his ligneous body moaning under pressures both physical and metaphorical, "this place will be in a state of chaos upon your entry. None has come here, since the night your mother died."  
Gwenevere offered nothing in response, save for a shrill and hitched little sob which she suspected only she could hear. Pain and lament flooded his sappy innards, as the creature watched her frail hand falter, sliding down the door like that of a lifeless cadaver. Even if this estranged daughter of the Green no longer called this magnificent world her home, she apparently still held precious memories of this place. Perhaps, there was indeed still a chance to call her home. With another loud creak, the treebeast proceeded to press upon the weathered doorframe, and ushered her inside.   
"Please, young seed. Pray follow."  
The inside of the temple was a remarkable sight for either man or beast. Not an ounce of magic had been spared in the creation of this marvel. Thick, green vines arched and coiled around the ceiling like living art, while rare carnivorous flowers of diverse colors accentuated the outlines of these thick, creeping greens. A dim, natural light flooded down through a carved eye in the ceiling, casting a rather haunting design onto the great stone altar below. Similar patterns dappled the walls around her, giving Gwenevere the alarming sensation of being forever watched.   
Built as a conduit for earthen magic, and secrets of the Vine, Gwenevere's mother had constructed this place after the death of her cherished friend and teacher. A place, where she could always come in her darkest hour, and pay homage to all he had done for her. All he had taught her. From the ashes of tragedy and heartache, grand things can arise. This was the lesson passed down from mother, to child. Gwenevere wondered, if her devotions to Garrett would result in a similar demonstration of fealty and gratitude in due time. Though she doubted herself capable of ever constructing him any sort of temple.   
But after learning that Garrett had indeed been the one to pilfer her father's sword, she wasn't exactly ecstatic over the possibility. Gwenevere knew her mother had endured terrible disagreements with her own mentor, though the details remained unknown. Furious and hurt though she was, neither the young woman's respect nor appreciation for the thief or his teachings had been tarnished. Perhaps it was her abundant naivety, but Gwenevere still held to the belief that she and Garrett would eventually overcome this. Then, perhaps one day, he too would become a cherished friend. Bestow upon Gwenevere great wisdom and confidence, as her mother's teacher had once done for her. That, was the hope which kept the girl going, moving ever deeper into darkness.   
Gwenevere continued to keep pace with the hardwood behemoth, her shoes sinking into the supple carpet of moss with each step. The treebeast swayed on ahead, dead leaves crunching beneath his tangled wooden toes. When he reached the leaden stone alter, he paused, and waited for the girl.   
"The cityfools treat these structures far differently than we, do they not?" the treebeast asked over his shoulder, his tone nonchalant. "Always filled to capacity and sound, rather than a place for diminutive gatherings, and silent memory."  
"Well, you know what they say," Gwenevere grinned. "Humans are pack animals."  
"Indeed..." the treebeast sighed.  
Leaves rustled in the wind outside, as a warm breeze wafted its way through the spring village. Gwenevere stared down at her feet, then directed her eyes upward to admire the patchwork of vines and flowers covering the temple ceiling. A squirming from deep within her stomach, prompted the redhead to eye the ligneous beast once more.   
"Why did you bring me back to this place, if you don't want the sword back?" she inquired. "I mean, don't get me wrong--it's wonderful to see mother's memorial again. But...why share such a beautiful memory with me, when you know I'm not staying to do as you wish?"  
The treebeast remained hunched over the alter, his back facing her. It was coated in a thick layer of hairy brown moss, and strange white mushrooms. Deep growls began to rumble from somewhere deep within his throat, as the ancient one ran his talons over the base of the stone. A horrible screech resounded throughout the temple, and Gwenevere cringed, nearly dropping her father's blade.   
"Forgive me," the creature apologized for his outburst. "I know what was said. I admitted to making my peace with your decision, even encouraged it. But in truth, I am still very troubled by all of this."  
"All of what?" Gwenevere asked.  
"When first I spied you galivanting through this place, your father's forsaken weapon in tow, I believed you here to liberate us from the scum Hammerites."  
"I'm sorry, but I am nothing like my father," Gwenevere admitted in a disquieting tone, "and I could never lead anyone to freedom. I wasn't even able to procure my own freedom without help. Even now, I am being hunted."  
"By he who first stole you from this place?"  
"Yes. He holds power over me still. A relic, which prevents me from taking form and slaughtering him where he stands," Gwenevere explained, an obvious dread coating her words. "He wants my blood--my very life--for...something. I can't quite wrap my head around what his end goal is. But rest assured, it's really, really bad."   
"Then why, child? Why remain within that stony world at all? Come home to us!"  
"If I came home, Simmons would bring his wrath and violence in here after me."  
"Let him come. We, are ready this time."  
"Then why do you need me to liberate you?" Gwenevere retorted, a glint within her eyes. "No. I said I have work to do in the City, and I meant it. You said you respected my choice, yet all you have done since bringing me here, is try and dissuade me!"  
"For that, I am grievously sorry. But perhaps if you understood your role in all of this, then--"  
"--I never asked for this!" she screamed, tears streaming from her eyes like blood. "I never asked to be born as this...this thing!"  
"Woodsie one? Whatever do you mean?"  
"What do you think it means?! Why do you think I hide so, behind this human skin? It's because I want to be one of them! I want to help them," Gwenevere sobbed. "I hate what I am inside!"  
"But the Pagans--"  
"--The Pagans have you. They have apebeasts, craybeasts, and many more powerful creatures to safeguard them from future harm," she countered. "The city goers have a corrupted government, and unfair living conditions. Many don't even get enough to eat! Tell me, creature: When was the last time you've ever seen a Pagan go hungry?"  
Her words rendered the proud beast just as mute as his oak and sycamore brethren. Gwenevere continued to preach, though in a much calmer voice.  
"The forest and its people are strong, diligent. They can survive without my help, at least for a while. But the poor who remain trapped within the darkest places of that city...they won't."  
"Forgive me, Woodsie One. Far be it from I, to attempt to shift your decisions," the wooded sentinel croaked.   
"Thank you, for understanding," Gwenevere nodded, gratitude lustrous within her deep green eyes.  
"Make no mistake, child. I do not understand," the treebeast corrected. "But I accept your decree, all the same."  
Gwenevere remained silent, feeling as the ground began to shift with life beneath her feet. This encounter had become uncomfortable, and the girl creature wanted to flee. But something held her there, rooting her down and preventing her mouth from screaming. At last, the branches of the elder tree came down, prying her fingers open. Then, the ligneous beast deposited something spherical and cold within her palm. As his great boughs pulled away, Gwenevere's pupils contracted in wonder as they acknowledged the forgotten object within.  
The grand creature of wood and magic leaned forward, until the jutting edges of his deadly maw brushed against Gwenevere's brow, ruffling her messy red bangs.  
"Do you remember?" his voice rumbled, vibrating against the girl's forehead, tickling her repressed memories.  
"Yes...of course I do. I could never forget..." her voice was muted, sorrowful. As if the very sight of this luminous round gemstone had awakened a world of lament within her very soul. And, in many respects, it very well had.   
Flashes of green light, augmented by the flutter of dark leaves and twining branches. Laughter, as she bobbed and chattered upon the burly shoulders of a painted huntsman. Watching as her tears collected upon lotus petals, when word had reached her ears of that trusted friend's demise. Vines softening from deadly, blood-stained branches to hold her close to a wild, yet nurturing mother. A cacophony of shrieking apebeasts and feral roars, as that mother lead her strongest warriors against metallic demons.   
Tears streamed from Gwenevere's eyes like sappy blood, as these faded recollections were loosened from the darkest recesses of her mind. She hadn't forgotten, like some hapless maiden in denial. She had locked them away, purposeful in her intent to never again return to that horrible time. But after finding her father's blade, fate had demanded her return to this place. The treebeast gurgled, caressing her cheek with one of his mossy tendrils.   
"I did not mean to upset you this grievously, dear seed," he apologized. "But you must know why my need for your return is so great. The Mechanists are still about, as are the Hammerites. The baron himself now wishes to exterminate the forest, razing both its people and this land to the ground if necessary."  
Gwenevere wiped her eyes, and clutched the stone tighter within her hand.   
"I will help you. I promise," she whispered. "Mother would want that, too."  
"Indeed she would, child," the twisted creature confirmed with a deep moan.   
"After I help the humans back in the City, I shall return to this place and help you," Gwenevere promised, tucking the devious blade away within her belt.   
***  
Gwenevere emerged into daylight, clutching the glimmering orb within her trembling hand. In a past long since forsaken, she had known this object as the Woodsie Emerald, although its attributes were more of glass than gemstone. There had been several others, used as protective conduits by the Pagan folk. Glowing green spheres brimming with an enigmatic, calming green light. This, was perhaps one of the largest surviving.   
Before the Mechanists had come, spreading death and destruction throughout the forest, these artifacts had been numerous. However, most were smashed on that awful night, or otherwise lost in the heat of the chaos. Those which managed to survive, had been carefully locked away within the temple depths, only to be retrieved for certain spells or ceremonies. The tree beast's gift, had been an attempt to safeguard Gwenevere from that treacherous realm she longed to return to. But whether the orb's ancient magic was enough to do so, only time would tell.  
The vivacious green nature magic within the, 'emerald' bloomed and danced at her touch, as Gwenevere continued to stare at the object with discerning, wondering eyes. The sword loosely tucked between her belt and dress jangled as she walked, the wicked curves of its stark silver hilt the only thing keeping it from slipping free. The elder treebeast, believed she was stronger than this. He must have, to allow her to not only keep the blade, but to also offer this rarified stone for her protection. One as wise and primal as he, did not invest in a weak soul. Such as the way of most Pagan creatures and humans. Nature herself dictated this attitude of dooming the weak or foolish to death, in favor of more aspiring life. But Gwenevere, did not view herself as worthy. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps once Garrett had trained her, perhaps once she had saved the City--

"--What am I going to do with you?" a miffed voice called from above, causing Gwenevere to stumble. She felt a rush of warm air sweep past her face, and felt as the Woodsie Emerald was ripped from her hand.

"H-hey!" she exclaimed, grinding her teeth as she surveyed the forest for her treasure. 

She spun around, and nearly collided with Garrett. The thief stood before her, his face empty and dark. The verdant orb was clutched within his gloved hand, and a firm look of unpleasantness was spread wide across his face. Gwenevere covered her mouth to stifle a shriek, only to fall backwards into a berry patch. 

"G-Garrett?! What are you doing out here?" she stammered, berry juice coating her hands and legs from the fall. 

Garrett smirked at the absurd scene, as he bounced the green orb within his hand.

"I'd like to ask you the same question," he muttered, his smug expression crumbling into a scornful sneer.


	15. Tarnished Emerald

Wind rustled through the ancient trees, bringing with them a feral bouquet of petals and timber. Garrett's shadow loomed over his fallen apprentice, eclipsing Gwenevere like a frail alabaster moon. His eyes were pensive, yet there was something akin to morbid curiosity within them too. After some quiet deliberation as to what should be done, Garrett's firm expression eased into the features of a very annoyed, very bored man. 

"Well, it looks like I won't be needing this..." he sighed, producing an octagonal potion flask, and holding it up to the light. He marveled at the rich ruby luster for a few seconds, before tucking the object away within one of the concealed pockets lining his cloak. 

Gwenevere grew animated at his kindness, and did some marveling of her own at the thief's unique eyes. They reminded her of a certain cat Lord Simmons' wife had owned, long ago. A persnickety and aggressive little thing, its sleek chocolate and cream face augmented by two curved, deep-set eyes: One green, the other blue. And while her master's were brown and blue, the odd juxtaposition was eerily beautiful. 

"You mean...you brought that for me?" she stammered, astounded. Garrett shot her a venomous glare, that shattered the girl's fondness of him into dust. 

"Tch, no! I brought it, just in case I got injured retrieving you from these savage woods," the misanthropic criminal clarified with a snort. Gwenevere puffed up her cheeks in irate disappointment. 

"Well then why'd you come after me at all? If you care so little..." she demanded. 

"Because Gwenevere, as your mentor, it's my duty to fix your stupid mistakes!" Garrett shouted, startling her. Then, in a low murmur, "I should drop you right now. I already spent all of Basso's payment, so what's he gonna do?" 

Gwenevere's fuming expression softened and grew pale. She looked as though she might be on the verge of tears, as she gawked upward at her mentor with those innocent green eyes. The ultimatum of what this escape may have cost her, speared her heart. Without Garrett's knowledge of theft and the city surrounding them, Gwenevere's dreams of becoming a vigilante died with the very people she longed to save. Desire and reason were absent from her thoughts, as she begged the hooded rogue not to give up on her. 

"Garrett, please. I can explain!" Gwenevere panicked, struggling to stand. Garrett glowered down at her. 

"I decided to take the long way home after checking in with Basso, regarding some new 'opportunities'. I wasn't expecting to deal with you until this evening, Gwenevere," Garrett groused. "So, imagine my surprise when I watched you exit my tower and proceed to go skipping down the road in broad daylight."

"Um...yes. About that..." Gwenevere managed a silly, somewhat nervous little grin. 

"We've already discussed this!" Garrett snapped, cutting her off. "You, don't leave the clocktower, especially during the day when everyone can see you doing it! The last thing I need, is a bunch of bluecoats barging in to search the place for vagrants."

"I-I know...I'm sorry..."

"Apologies are worthless to me," Garrett growled. 

Usually, the thoughts or desires behind the actions of others disinterested the thief. But every so often, some taffer would do something so ridiculous, so profoundly stupid, that Garrett simply had to know why they'd done it. Basso, was usually the prime candidate when it came to triggering these rare interests in understanding his fellow man. But this time, it was Gwenevere. 

The Pagan wood, was perilous enough. But the Maw, where only magic and chaos resided, was a place of nightmares. Volatile swamp creatures, man-eating plants, cries in the night which chilled the blood to ice. More than anything else, Garrett wanted to ask Gwenevere, why. Why had she chosen to venture willingly into a savage world where even the master thief had never gone willingly, or without good reason? 

But something troubled him. How had Gwenevere--clumsy, obnoxious, naive Gwenevere--made it this far into Pagan territory without being viciously slaughtered by man or beast? So many questions he wanted to ask of her, wanted to shake out of her. But what followed, was a simple inquiry, and it came in a very annoyed, yet collected tone.

"Gwenevere. Why did you come here?"

His calm demeanor must have surprised her, because it took the girl a good few seconds of silence and staring before she attempted a response. 

"I... I saw some disturbing things in the clocktower. I needed some fresh air, and a change of scenery to take my mind off it. The forest has always granted me such serenity, Garrett," she explained quietly. 

"What did you see?" Garrett asked. Gwenevere shot him a bothered look. 

"Garrett, do you know about the Hammerite Memorial which exists on the lowest level of the tower?" she asked in a nervous voice, her eyes shaded by her bangs. 

Garrett's expression darkened, his posture stiffening at the mention of the hidden graveyard. Of course he knew about that place, but he was hoping she didn't. Although he had--and still very much did--harbor an intense hatred for the Hammerites, the thief had never intended for things to turn out so grimly.

They say that hindsight is twenty-twenty, that one can never undo the past. Time marches forward, leaving all the mistakes and missed opportunities permanent upon the fabric of a human heart. However, there is a purpose to hindsight, as there is with all things. Hindsight, gives us the power of perception. The ability, to learn from our past mistakes. And it was indeed hindsight, the heavy lament and guilt carried within his shadowy heart, which led Garrett to pursue the unthinkable: Keeper enlightenment. More specifically, an interest in future prophecies.

Artemus had told him, as Garrett sat hunched and near catatonic, Viktoria's cinnabar ashes trickling through his fingers like sand, that the Order knew all. They had predicted her demise, the loss of his eye. And they, could predict the future at hand, as well. Thus the master thief had abandoned his pride and joined forces with Keepers for the second--and final--time. 

What transpired thereafter, was chaos on level with the Trickster himself. Reckless and desperate, Garrett had attempted to give these prophecies a little push, by stopping time with his own two hands. But as he fled the explosions and screams that night, the massive tower threatening to crush him as it groaned and fell, Garrett regained his senses. 

Rather than certainty, his world began to unravel at the seams. A small group of Hammers lay dead and crushed, the clocktower in ruins. The Keeper Council turned on him, using his history and tendencies as a convenient scapegoat for the murder of their beloved interpreter. Upon that day, Garrett realized that control, was merely an illusion. 

"Yeah. I know about it," he murmured in a benumbed voice. "It's because of me that it's down there in the first place..."

Gwenevere's face contorted into a visage of absolute heartbreak. 

"You didn't..." she whispered. Something flared to life inside of her veins, melting her shock into outrage. "Garrett, how could you kill all those people?!"

Garrett sneered at her when the girl screamed in his face. Clenching his fists around her precious greensie prize, he retaliated. 

"I didn't mean for it to happen like that, okay?!" memory, laced with perhaps a slight twinge of regret rattled the thief, prompting him to lower his voice. "I had no idea my actions would be so destructive..."

Gwenevere appeared more insulted than surprised. Her green eyes narrowed, as she examined the reserved moonlighter with concentrated scorn. 

"You sabotaged a clocktower, and then you were shocked that your actions were destructive?!" she threw her arms out to the sides of her body in a rather dramatic display. "HELLO!?!"

Garrett bristled at that. 

"Look, I never intended for you to venture that far down there, Gwenevere! I locked that place up extra tight for a reason."

"You give me a pair of lockpicks, teach me how to use them, and then encourage my exploration? What did you think was gonna happen?" Gwenevere bit back, sarcasm lacing her words like poison. 

"I didn't think you'd keep going after seeing that many locks!" he argued, choosing to fire back with a couple of insults all his own. "I thought seeing three difficult locks would intimidate you, signaling for you to turn back."

"If you honestly think I'd quit that easily, then you really don't know me very well at all," Gwenevere snarled. "Plus, I have been learning from the best. Maybe you shouldn't have underestimated me, Garrett!"

Her analytical retort rendered him speechless. Sometimes, Garrett honestly wondered if the girl was just playing innocent and dumb. Either that, or she was some weird kind of savant. Sunlight danced through the leaves above their heads, as afternoon began to steadily ebb into evening. 

"Did you find anything else down there?" Garrett inquired, deflecting her argument. That was when he spotted Constantine's sword, dangling clumsily at her waist. 

Garrett seethed at the sight, his piercing glare wrought with betrayal, and uncontainable wrath. Before Gwenevere could even attempt a response, he snatched her up by the wrist and pulled her petite frame aloft. Gwenevere yipped and gasped at the sudden, violent action. Pain and fear coursed through her system, as she was hoisted up to the thief's eye level. Her mentor sneered at her. 

"You would dare steal from me?!? After everything I've done for you?!" His grip tightened, and Gwenevere squealed in pain. 

Instinct took root, prompting the girl to thrash and scream like a trapped animal. One of her cumbersome kicks, managed to thump Garrett hard in the groin by accident. He squeezed his eyes shut, and immediately relinquished Gwenevere's flailing form. A loud, surprised exclamation exited his throat, before he collapsed to his knees in great discomfort. She landed on her rump, panting and sobbing as she continued to glare up at him. 

"It doesn't belong to you!!" she argued, freeing the sword and clutching it tightly against her chest. 

Garrett exhaled a loud, heated groan, his body silently quivering beneath the tall trees. As he knelt there, clutching at his throbbing genitals and holding back a bout of swearing that would make even old Basso blush, his hazy vision registered upon the startled young woman. More specifically, on her face. Tears were streaming from her eyes now, utmost candor and conviction locked behind them. Impressionable green and yellow glass baubles; gorgeous treasures that the thief wanted nothing to do with. 

The maiden's accusation would have made him smirk, had Garrett not been seething with pain at that particular moment. The sword, apparently didn't belong to him. Neither did most objects Garrett held claim to. He sneered at her, before attempting to speak. 

"Of course it's mine!" he grunted, trying to hide his pain from her. "I've had that sword for years now!"

"I know! I remember seeing you take it when I was just a baby!" Gwenevere shouted. 

Her rebuttal, surprised him. Still wracked with much discomfort, Garrett attempted to stand. 

"You're mistaken," he argued gruffly, bending upon one knee to ready himself. "I've never pilfered so much as a bauble from that guy." 

Gwenevere hopped to her feet and marched over to where the thief was still recovering from her accidental blow. She glowered down at him, great distrust within her eyes. 

"What guy?" she demanded. 

"Who do you think?" Garrett, glared right back. "Lord Simmons."

Gwenevere, was outraged. 

"No! Not Simmons. Constantine!" she corrected. "You stole this sword from Lord Constantine!"

As that forbidden name left her lips, all the color seemed to drain out of Garrett's face. Whatever composure he'd summoned since being nailed in the family jewels, dissipated forthwith. Irritation and fury, gave way to concentrated dread. The only thing the master thief had ever feared, were the nightmares of his past. And this unassuming girl standing over him, had just mentioned one of them.

Constantine, had been a fat, jolly old eccentric, possessing a face far too twisted to belong to any man. When first he'd met the maniacal nobleman, Garrett had thought him obsessed, and obviously more than a bit looney. But the aspiring young pickpocket hungered for the bigger scores, the payouts which would inevitably make him a legend. Greed, had clouded Garrett's judgement that night within the muggy confines of Constantine's boudoir, as the absinthe flowed, and Viktoria giggled quietly in the corner. Had he recognized the savagery within her that night, perhaps the thief would still yet retain both of his eyes. 

Garrett suppressed a shudder, as he dug his fingernails into the soft warm moss. 

"How do you know about him?" he demanded, grimacing up at her. Gwenevere's figure was blocking his light, her shadow casting a disquieting blanket of darkness and mystery over his person. 

He played with the idea for a while. Perhaps, the Simmons' were old acquaintances with the, 'Constantines'. Maybe Gwenevere had visited the gruesome mad house once when she was quite young. But there was one problem with that most convenient excuse, an issue which drove holes through both his theory, and his mind. Aside from a few incompetent guards, the mansion had been unoccupied on the night of Garrett's daring commission. Chills tormented the back of his neck, as he continued to stare up at Gwenevere. How could she possibly have been there that night? 

"I've said too much already," the young woman croaked, rubbing her cheek against the cracked gemstone adorning the sword's detailed hilt. "Let's just say...that I knew him very well. I guess you could say that he...took certain interests in me."

Garrett's eyes narrowed at that. Nothing this girl said ever made any sense. Why should today be any different?

"Stupid's a better look on you than crazy," he mocked, finally getting to his feet. Gwenevere faced him, giving the rogue an ugly little sneer. 

"I'm not crazy OR stupid!" she snarled, stomping her foot. "I thought I proved that when I managed to pick your extra-tricky locks!"

Touché... Garrett smirked a little. 

"Just give me my sword back, and we can forget today and just get out of here," he continued, reaching for the weapon. Gwenevere hugged the blade tighter against her chest, shaking her head a little in the process. But Garrett pried the sword from her grasp with little difficulty. 

"Come on. We need to head back before it gets dark," he ushered, turning around. 

"Huh? But why? What's the big hurry, Garrett?" Gwenevere cocked her head like a curious dog. Garrett looked over his shoulder at her.

"This is the Pagan wood, Gwenevere. And the Maw, for that matter. I'd say that more than constitutes a 'big hurry' to get the taff back to civilization."

"But this forest is so relaxing!" Gwenevere argued, spreading out her arms and acquiring a dreamy expression. She spun around a few times, before growing dizzy and collapsing back into the berry patch in a fit of cherubic laughter. 

Garrett stared blankly down at her, watching as she giggled in her childish and berry-coated state. All he ever felt within this place, was trepidation. Bitterness, and a primitive unease. Like an early man, hiding and creeping amidst the dense brush in order to evade the hideous beasts who hungered for his soft, mealy flesh. He couldn't begin to fathom venturing into this jungle for such a spontaneous purpose.

"Do you have any idea what this place is?" Garrett's features darkened, a deep sense of foreboding within his voice. "Do you have any idea what sorts of dangers lurk here?"

"Umm...I think I do," she replied. The moonlighter continued as though he hadn't heard her. 

"Dangerous savages, beasts beyond your wildest imaginings, Gwenevere. And trust me when I say, both would gladly tear you apart without a moment's hesitation."  
"Well I dunno about that," Gwenevere beamed, rolling around in the berries. "I can imagine some pretty wild things, ya know!" 

Garrett's face twisted in astonishment. Without thinking, he stormed over to the playful girl creature, and pulled her to her feet. Gwenevere's gleeful disposition faded, revealing a very surprised and concerned expression upon her face. The thief grabbed both of her shoulders and gave his clueless apprentice a harsh shake. 

"This isn't a damned game, Gwenevere!" he barked. "Even a thief as skilled as myself would never be caught in Pagan territory, unless there was a reward of great significance waiting at the end. You don't go risking your life like this on mere flights of fancy!"

Gwenevere blinked, staring upward at him for a moment before starting to giggle. Garrett, was furious.

"Why the hell are you laughing?!" he demanded. The girl faced him, teeth jutting down over her bottom lip, mischief glimmering within her eyes like tiny diamonds.  
"Because," she whispered, as though hundreds of prying ears now surrounded them, "I did find something of value."

Garrett's long fingers squeezed and rubbed against the surface of the peridot bauble he'd snatched from an unwitting Gwenevere's hand. Pulling the Woodsie Emerald out from his cloak, the thief held the shimmering orb up in front of her face. 

"You mean this?" he inquired, in a disinterested tone. "Sure, it looks pretty. But in my professional opinion, it's just a worthless piece of junk." 

"No, you're wrong! It's far more special than--"

Gwenevere's argument was shattered, as the mythical green stone was thrown to the forest floor. The mossy earth sank slightly, as the Woodsie Emerald rolled to her feet. Again, Garrett grabbed her, forcing her to look at him.

"Foolish girl! Don't you understand?!" he chastised, clenching his teeth. "You could have lost your life over this trivial Pagan garbage!" 

"It's NOT garbage!" Gwenevere barked back. Garrett's expression tensed. He didn't appreciate that she was talking back to him like this. 

"This, was pure folly, and it will NEVER, happen again," her teacher snarled. Gwenevere squealed as the thief took up her chin between his index finger and thumb, forcing her to stare into his bi-colored lenses. His unnatural right eye bore a deep hole into her subconscious, holding her captivated. "Is that clear?"

Still mesmerized, Gwenevere somehow managed a modicum of weak acknowledgement. 

"Yes..." 

The thief's hand dropped her. But unbeknownst to him, the young woman was still captured within his eyes. 

"Good. Then let's go," the thief muttered. 

"But," Gwenevere's words petrified the man before he could even attempt his first step. Turning back around, Garrett sneered in her direction.  
"What is it now?"

"I-I just needed to say, that even if you can't see it, this item is still quite valuable to me!" she explained. 

Garrett remained pensive, too miffed by her defiance to bother correcting her again. Instead, he chose to ask that one simple word again. 

"Why?"

Gwenevere plucked the orb up from the verdant earth. Every voice within her heart, every sensation in her deepest chasm forbade her from speaking. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled like animal fur, and her legs began to quiver like a newborn fawn's. But against all warning, the girl creature spoke her mind. She chose to convey the truth to Garrett, because she hoped it would help him understand. For what he perceived as recklessness, was mere duty. Dangerous realms, a forsaken paradise. Gwenevere summoned a deep breath, and locked eyes with her incomparable, trusted mentor. 

"Because, this stone is part of my lost heritage, Garrett! I'm half wood nymph ya know!" 

At first, the thief merely stared down at her, smiling a little at her perceived madness. But something about the way her silhouette melded effortlessly against the backdrop of trees and flowers, prompted the faintest hint of intrigue to trickle down his spine. Garrett had seen madness, recognized it like an old nemesis across a crowded room. It had warped the face of a gilded prophet, driven the very foundations of a secret society to ruin. The master thief himself had even wrestled with it personally a time or two. And as he looked ever deeper into Gwenevere's vast green irises, Garrett beheld neither a trace of insanity nor deception. 

If she wasn't lying, and she wasn't mad, what other choices did that leave? A disquieting chill found the back of Garrett's neck, causing him to swallow hard. This would explain her magic; her flighty and whimsical heart. Her fearless desire to return to this place. A myriad of memories and twisted thoughts played and reflected within the moonlighter's eyes, before fading away again into the deepest recesses of his subconscious. He had known at least one nymph, in what now felt like a lifetime ago. And Gwenevere, was nothing like her.

"Don't even go there with me..." he warned in a low, threatening tone. Gwenevere looked bewildered.

"But Garrett! I am!" she protested. 

Garrett's brows furrowed. He'd endured just about all he could take from this girl, and her reminders of his bitter past. He grabbed Gwenevere's wrist again, ignoring her pleas and cries as he threw her back over his shoulder. 

"Shut your mouth. We're going home," he groused. "And if you even try to kick me again, I'll make you regret it."

The thief subconsciously patted the hard leather blackjack at his waist. 

"Alright, alright!" Gwenevere squealed, bobbing her head up and down as she dangled over Garrett's back. 

The thief prowled onward in silence for a while after that, Gwenevere’s light frame bobbing up and down like a ragdoll. Garrett deliberated on what the girl's punishment should be for this reckless behavior. Aside from cleaning his tower and the like, he hadn't yet instilled any real discipline. But after today, the misanthropic rogue knew he had to put the fear of the Builder into her. By whatever means necessary. And, as far as Garrett was concerned, there was only one foolproof way to do just that. 

"Garrett?" Gwenevere peeped, pawing at the back of her mentor's cloak as he carried her out of the forest. 

"I thought I told you to shut your mouth..." he muttered. 

"Y-you did," Gwenevere blushed. "I just had something I wanted to say."

"Tough shit."

"I'm sorry I broke the rules. I'm sorry I argued, and I'm sorry I disobeyed you, Garrett," the young woman offered. Garrett just sighed.

"You're still talking, ergo, you're still disobeying me," he grumbled.

"I... I know..." she whispered. "I just wanted to make you happy, Garrett. But I keep messing it up."

The thief halted abruptly, and lowered Gwenevere to the ground. He leered into her with an agitated, yet almost bored expression.

"Read my lips, Gwenevere: I. Don't. Care," he clarified, before starting out of the forest again without her. Gwenevere scampered after him.

"I-I'm sorry about today! About accidently hurting you! I never wanted any of this to happen, I..." she hesitated, gazing down at her feet with a sorrowful, yet longing expression within her eyes. "I just wanted to make you proud..."

Again, her words halted him. Garrett turned around, giving Gwenevere a cruel, almost menacing glare. 

"Yeah, about this whole, 'make-me-proud' thing?"

"Uh-huh?" she began to perk up again.

"Cut it out," he ordered. Turning around again, the thief motioned with his hand for her to follow suit. "Pick up the pace, Gwenevere. There's something I need to show you."

***

As twilight cast its rich golden colors over the City, Garrett continued his procession through the darker regions of that place. Gwenevere trailed behind, running her hands against the brick walls, and kicking little bits of debris forward as she walked. As light began to wane from the world and the torchlights buzzed to life, she began to notice that they were nowhere near Stonemarket, or the clocktower.

"Hey Garrett? Where are we going? I thought we were going home?" 

"We are," he replied, before looking over his shoulder. There was a sinister glint within his remaining brown eye. "But first, you need to be punished for what happened today."

Gwenevere jerked backwards, bringing her little hand across her chest in shock.

"P-punished?" she stammered. 

"That's right. Tonight, I'm going to show you what can and will happen to you, if you don't learn to survive down here."

Before Gwenevere could inquire further into this mysterious 'punishment', or why they needed to venture so deep into the worst parts of this city to carry it out, she received her answer.

Before her, occupying a dark and dismal stretch of alleyway, were dozens of disheveled individuals. Some, were missing limbs. Others were covered in filthy bandages. Some, were already long dead, flies swarming over their rotting remains. Perhaps the sight which haunted Gwenevere the most, was that of a dead child. The poor soul was curled into a fetal position around a scraggly straw doll; bones prominent, and the look of hopelessness etched into his still features. Gwenevere shuddered, her mouth agape as she took in all of this unexpected suffering. Tears flowed from her eyes, thick as blood as the survivors looked up at her. She clutched her navy cape tighter around her quivering shoulders, as she followed after Garrett. Never before had she felt such levels of remorse. Of helplessness. 

"I've gone into the heart of that Maw, robbed a chasm of the dead. But out of all the horrible and disturbing places I've been to, this city is the darkest of all." The sound of Garrett's voice permeating the darkness nearly caused Gwenevere to shriek. "You say you want to be a vigilante? A hero? You're far from the first. Liberating this place, is a fool's errand."

They continued into another alleyway, the state of the homeless within far worse than the first. Some were obviously very ill, sores and puss covering substantial portions of their arms and legs like sickly burns. Others were sitting in piles of their own waste, their legs twisted behind them into unnatural positions. They looked up at Gwenevere, a harsh mixture of helplessness and envy contorting their faces as she walked by. 

"What happened to them?" she gasped. 

"This is what can happen when you get too careless in my world, Gwenevere," Garrett continued his rather grim lecture. "Defy the watch too many times, and they'll either kill you, or break you. Most of these people were thieves. Thieves who won't be running from the watchdogs anymore..."

Gwenevere took a moment to allow the realness of that statement to sink in. Whatever the elder treebeast believed, this city was desperately in need of salvation. It was proving to be a far more savage--and downright evil place, than the wide-eyed maiden had initially expected. Gwenevere was now crying so terribly, that the tears were beginning to obstruct her vision. A street filled with broken bodies--how could anyone be so wicked?!

"Why would your leader allow this?!" she demanded in a shrill voice, without thinking better of it. Garrett turned to her and frowned.

"Because without influence or titles, you're nothing but garbage here," the thief sneered. "Surely someone like you can understand that..."

His jab, caused the emotional creature to seethe. Tiny flames seared and danced within her eyes, as Gwenevere ground her teeth. As Garrett turned around, she raced ahead of him. He nearly tripped over the girl, as she spread her arms outward to stop him. The criminal gave her a hideous scowl, but Gwenevere shouted at him first.

"How can you be so horrid? So cold inside?!" she fumed. "There are people dying all around you, and all you can think to do is blame me for it? Why?! Because of where I came from? Because you think I'm a Simmons?!"

Weary eyes slowly turned their miasmic gazes onto the irate girl, as the infamous family name left her lips. Seeing this, Garrett abruptly covered them over with his gloved hand, and pulled her into him.

"Taffing girl!” he hissed into her ear. "You trying to get us both killed?!"

"Let GO of me!" Gwenevere wailed, trying to pry herself loose. But Garrett's grip was like being caught in a steel vice. 

"No!" he snarled. "You need to learn the weight behind your words. Plenty before you have tried and failed to be this city's savior. And they all had intentions just as pure as your own."

"I never claimed to be the first!" she squirmed. 

Garrett finally released her. His face was flustered, wrought with both physical and emotional exhaustion. Gwenevere panted, her hair feathered out and wild from the struggle. 

"Why are you doing this? Why are you so intent on trying to stop me?!" 

"Because I still don't understand why you'd want to, Gwenevere!" Garrett retaliated. 

"Because! I want to help people!" she snapped. "Why is that so hard for you to understand?!"

"Because that's not the way the real world works, Gwenevere," Garrett explained. "Nothing is free, and no one is that charitable."

Gwenevere looked up at him, her furious expression melting into a deep look of pity.

"I am," she stated solemnly. "I know it may be hard for you to trust that, but all I've ever wanted to do, is help people. It's like, there's something deep within me, blazing like the sun. Pushing me onward."

Her eyes danced, lost in a place where Garrett knew he could never venture. Gwenevere, truly was a foreigner to him. A passionate heart, hailing from a land where perpetual optimism reigned, and hope could never be extinguished. Sometimes, cynical as he was, the thief wished such a place could truly exist. But in reality, however cruel, Garrett knew such innocent aspirations and ideologies would lead only to her death. Thus, it was with a certain reluctance, that he deigned to drag her further into the darkness. To expose her naive mind, to reality. A deep sigh exited his mouth, as darkness covered the land. 

"Just come on..." he muttered, resuming his pace. 

***

That reality, came in the form of a murmuring crowd, as they gathered around a familiar wooden structure. The City Gallows. Garrett pulled his black mask up over his mouth and nose and narrowed his eyes. Even now, the sight managed to cause a lump of black dread to well up within him. But being there, was mandatory. He'd known for weeks, via a certain heavy-set drunk, that a vigilante was to be hung that evening. Taking Gwenevere to the execution; forcing the girl to bear witness to the horrible fate awaiting her--should she fail in her goal--had initially been the furthest idea from his mind. But her recent acts of defiance and oblivious notions, had forced his hand.

Gwenevere at his side, the thief found a shadowy spot towards the very back of the group. A perfect place to both observe, and hide. The scent of flowers and sweet berries wafted up from her messy red hair, she moved in front of him. Standing on the tips of her toes, Gwenevere groaned as she struggled to get a better view.   
"What's going on? Why are all these people here?" she questioned, still traumatized by what she'd seen back in the alleyways. Little did the girl creature realize, that the worst imagery, was yet to come.

The gallows themselves, were composed of weatherworn wood, ash grey and sullen. Torches blazed from two secured brackets, casting sinister shadows down upon the execution below. Two bluecoats held the accused, a burlap sack concealing his features from the public. Beside them, stood the executioner himself. The very visage of this man filled Gwenevere with dread. He was a younger man; perhaps late twenties, early thirties. Hair framed the sides of his face in a series of inky black waves. His knife-cut nose and high cheekbones gave him a rather imposing appearance, as did his challenging stance and scathing amber eyes. 

"Garrett," Gwenevere tugged lightly upon her mentor's cloak.

"Huh?" Garrett responded, only half-cognizant. The brunt of his focus was still being directed unto the grim sight before him.

"Who is that man?" she inquired, pointing over the crowd towards the formidable man in black. Garrett stared down at her, almost dumbfounded.

"How could you not know him?" the thief gaped. "I know you don't get out much, but wow..."

"Can you please just tell me who he is?" the girl tapped her foot impatiently.

"That's Sheriff Bronsin Truart," Garrett groused, crossing his arms. "He's the entitled nephew of the late Sheriff Gorman Truart, ya see. The second he turned eighteen, he pulled some strings in the underworld, and got former Sheriff Mosley deposed. Said she 'stole', his uncle's job. Would have had her killed too, but she was too clever for him. Last I heard, the broad went into hiding. Hasn't been seen or heard from since."

Gwenevere nodded slowly, listening to Garrett's explanation as she watched the sheriff withdraw a small bound parchment from his jacket. Unfurling the paper, he began to speak.

"Citizens of my fair City," he began, his voice arrogant and nasally, "before you today, stands the infamous Peirce the Liberator. This criminal has been accused of numerous counts of theft, assault, and espionage. Yet he would tell you, that these actions were noble," he sheriff purred. 

Gwenevere's eyes narrowed. Like the murmuring crowd before her, the gallows now held her full attention. Within the deepest glens of her complex mind, a memory fell like fruit from a twisted and forgotten tree. Gwenevere shuddered, bleating in protest as Sheriff Bronsin Truart's allegations began to mesh and collaborate with a similar and horrible experience all her own. The very words and memories which had driven her from that mansion, and down this road of justice in the first place:

"I'd wager you believe yourself quite noble in this moment, don't you?" Simmons had mocked, as the lord leered vehemently downward at his shattered pet. 

Gwenevere cupped her hands up over her ears, and began to tremble, as the sheriff continued his damning speech.

"This man claims to have committed these crimes in the name of the people. A truly selfless act--if true," the sheriff grinned. "But tell me, good citizens: Since when have petty thieves ever been capable of selfless acts?"

"But monsters are incapable of being noble, Gwenevere," Simmons' torment continued. "All they know, is chaos. This is why you have failed--and why he must die."

"All these men and women know, is greed," Sheriff Bronsin Truart continued with an ugly sneer. "They yearn for gold, for power and disruption. And they will do whatever it takes to acquire thus!"

"Beware the minions of the Trickster, for they revel in chaos," Lord Simmons quoted from memory. "Seek they to undo thy works, and subvert thy thoughts."

Gwenevere shook her head harder, drowning out her captor's torture, as the sheriff tucked away his parchment and peered out over the huddled masses. A sick smirk drew up the corners of his mouth, as his lips prepared their final statement.

"They will paint their lies white in order to subdue the masses, or to sleep at night. But no goodness can be found within the hearts of these deceivers. Only in death, will their fingers cease to pry coin from the purses of hardworking folk."

Gwenevere's face grew pallid, as the horrible realization struck her. The man before her, this daring and giving vigilante. He, was about to die.

The young woman jumped when Garrett began muttering quietly to himself behind her. 

"Tch, it's kinda ironic when you think about it. That man offered up his very life for the people of this city. Yet now, in his darkest hour of need, not a single person is going to come forward and help him," he commented, shaking his head. There was something akin to bitterness tangled around his words. 

Gwenevere stared at Pierce the Liberator for a few tense moments, before a proclamation consisting of but three simple words flew from her tongue like a battle cry.

"Then I will!" 

Before the thief realized what was happening, Gwenevere took off like a shot. Pushing her way through the crowd of eager civilians, the determined young idealist approached the gallows with purpose blazing within her eyes. Garrett sprinted after her, grabbing hold of the girl mere moments before she reached the front of the crowd. He pulled her back, scorn and distrust flooding his features in response to the concerned, prying eyes of the locals. One poisonous scowl from the master thief however, and the group hastily turned their attention back unto the execution at hand. 

Garrett struggled to pull Gwenevere away from the podium, and back into the safety of shadow. The girl was shrieking by this point, lurching forward like a captive beast, as the sheriff prepared to release the trap door. When she found that escape was impossible, Gwenevere turned to her mentor, desperation and hopelessness shimmering within her celadon eyes. 

"Garrett! Garrett, you have to let me save him! You have to do something!" she pleaded, mouth agape and panting. It was like trying to reason with a statue. 

Garrett's face remained stoic, his bi-colored stare intense and radiant. Her earlier actions should have infuriated him. After all, she'd nearly gotten them both spotted--by the sheriff, no less! But strangely, all Garrett could feel for Gwenevere in that moment, was a benumbing sense of pity. This girl. This passionate child. She truly believed there was hope for that defamed criminal with a noose around his neck. 

"Garrett!" her voice came again, jarring Garrett from his peculiar insight. "Do some--"

"--Stop it!" he ordered, grabbing at her mouth. "There is nothing you can do, Gwenevere. That man, is finished."

He ground his teeth as Gwenevere proceeded to thrash about, her fingers squeezing and digging around his leather armguard as Garrett fought to restrain her.   
But she succumbed to mortified silence, still and lifeless, as the distinct sound of a wooden door creaking open permeated the musky evening air. As the rope grew taught, and Peirce the Liberator gagged and choked, Gwenevere's body fell limply into Garrett's arms. Tears filled her wide green eyes, as she watched the lifeless vigilante dangle.

***

She did not remember the thief carrying her back to the clocktower, nor could she recall the raucous sounds of satisfaction wafting up from that disgusting crowd. All Gwenevere could feel in that moment, all she could see, was a crushing reminder of how cruel the world actually was. 

Garrett was pacing, his thumb and forefinger pressing against his throbbing temples. She watched him for several seconds, feeling as the blood bubbled within her veins. Emotion intercepted fury however, sending Gwenevere crumbling into a broken heap upon the wooden floor of the tower. 

"Why didn't you let me save him?!" she sobbed, holding her hand to her chest. Her heart was threatening to burst, palpitating wildly with each shudder and cry. Garrett ceased his pacing, and leered down at her. 

"Because you couldn't have!" he snapped. "If you'd interrupted a pubic hanging, everyone would have recognized you. Then, you would have been taken back to Simmons. And you'd just love that, wouldn't you?"

Tears flew from her eyes as Gwenevere jerked her head upright.

"It would have been worth it, if I'd saved a life!" she screeched. 

Garrett just stared at her. Throughout her stay with him, Gwenevere had likened the Simmons' family estate to her own unadulterated version of hell. Yet she was willing to risk being taken back there, just in order to rescue one doomed man. A lack of understanding, was putting it mildly indeed. 

"I should have expected any elements of severity or danger to be lost on you," he grumbled, staring out the window. "Why did I even bother?"

"Why didn't you help me?!" Gwenevere demanded, getting to her feet. "Maybe I couldn't have succeeded, but with your help--"

"--Yeah? And why the hell would I risk my life for some idealistic moron who threw his own away?!" Garrett interrupted with a vicious snort. 

"No. Of course not. Why would you?" she hissed. "You're only about as selfish as they come..."

Garrett mulled over her attempted insult for a moment, wondering how or why she thought such a statement would irk him. Of course he was selfish--he was a thief. And the greatest one out there, at that. Sighing, he licked the corners of his mouth before attempting to reason with this stalwart dreamer. 

"Gwenevere, look. You can't save the world or everyone in it, no matter who you are or how hard you try," he muttered coldly. "Some people, just can't be saved."

Gwenevere wiped away her thick tears, and proceeded to give Garrett the most disappointed, accusatory glare he'd ever seen. 

"That person, could have," she whispered, her face wrought with anguish.

Before Garrett could attempt any sort of response, Gwenevere ran into the Hammerite dormitories, slamming both of the large double doors behind her. Garrett followed, banging his fist against the worn mahogany wood. A loud click rang out within the hollow room, as Gwenevere hastened to lock the doors.

"Gwenevere, honestly--"

"--Just leave me alone!" she shouted. 

The idea of locks providing any sort of safeguard against his presence, was laughable. Garrett could effortlessly invade her precious sanctum, had he desired to. But leaving the girl to both her solitude and delusions, seemed a far more apt solution. Garrett could tell from that quivering voice, that she'd started crying again.   
Rolling his eyes, the thief turned around and made his way up to the belvedere of the clocktower. The moonlighter reached the top, watching as a few slick black ravens took flight across the waning sunset. Garrett peered out over the world below, arms crossed and a frown deep-set against his features. 

The wind howled like a ghostly apparition, welcoming the stars as they came out to play. The scent of smoke from a hundred chimneys mingled with the earthy smells of late autumn, tickling his nostrils as they swept past. Somewhere down below, a cat cried in the night. That demure, yet profound noise, was inevitably what guided the thief's thoughts back to Gwenevere. 

Curiously, it wasn't her abundant insolence that had bothered him this time. Rather, the amount of passion poured into such disobedience. And while her words hadn't wounded him, her behavior had at the very least nicked the thief in places. Perhaps the worst part, had been watching her go limp in response to the hanging. As she fell listless against his arm, Garrett swore he felt her innocence shatter. Maybe it was his inexperience with such things--such women--which encompassed the entire situation, making it far more unsettling than normal. The thief truly couldn't say. But whatever the case, Gwenevere's tarnished innocence riddled him with guilt. 

Worst of all, Garrett couldn't begin to understand why.


	16. Chapter 16

Dawn washed over the City, splashing its rich golden hues across the dreary urban landscape. Factories hummed to life, wisps of smoke steadily ebbing skyward from their grand iron chimneys. By days end, their noxious smog would cover the sky like thick black ink. Children hollered and laughed as they ran towards the schoolhouse, their tiny shoes clacking against the cobblestone. Doves took fight from the rafters of buildings, and shopkeepers unlocked their establishments in tandem. But throughout this early morning bustle, something was amiss. Concealed by weak streaks of shadow, or pressed up against cold stone walls, a nocturnal hunter lurked. 

The notorious criminal was not dressed in his usual thieving attire upon that unassuming day. Garrett, better than anyone, had perfected the strange cloaking powers of the mundane. The best place to hide a letter, was on the mantle. So it was that the master thief abandoned his trademark hood and cloak, and donned a long, heavy leather jacket. His dark and scraggly brown hair was exposed, the high leather collar of his coat protecting his neck from the biting cold. The only part of his usual attire worn upon that day, was his trusty black mask. His eyes intense and perpetually alert, Garrett took to the streets. 

Despite the outdoor temperature dipping into the single digits, a cold sweat began to erupt over the thief's palms as he exited the clocktower. The entire undertaking felt surreal, like the unfathomable dreams of a madman. Maybe it was the outfit--Garrett had never enjoyed being exposed. Something about hoods had always brought him comfort; whether it was the warmth they provided, or the coverage they insured. But something lingered and teased upon the farthest reaches of Garrett's mind, whispering that this simply wasn't the case. 

No, if anything, it had to be the risk. More specifically, why he was taking it. Because it wasn't gold or jewels luring the wanted man from his forsaken tower upon that fateful morning. It was sweet rolls. 

After he'd witnessed Gwenevere physically break before him, the master thief had experienced a rare and most uncomfortable conflict within his mind. It had kept him by the window all evening, it had denied him slumber. And now, it had driven him down into Stonemarket Plaza, to pilfer breakfast confectionaries from the local baker. 

Making sure to keep his mask tight across his gaunt features, he strolled into the exposed market district, eyes ever focused on the patrolling bluecoats. There was a woman sweeping up just beside a cart laden with colorful cakes and breads. Glancing around once before reaching, Garrett expertly swiped a small box of iced cakes, before continuing to sulk through the colorful shopping district. 

A part of him wondered why he was even doing this. Was he seriously rewarding the girl for getting upset by her well-deserved punishment?! Garrett huffed, noting that he'd never been so lenient--even towards Erin. That girl hadn't gotten away with anything when she was young. Trepidation tainted his thoughts like murky water, as the veteran criminal began to wonder if he was indeed going soft. 

"Burrickshit..." he muttered to himself. 

Garrett prepared to exit the market. But the sight of a familiar fat drunk in a ridiculous hat stopped him. 

Basso was leaning forward over a farmer's cart, his pudgy fingers interlocked behind his back. Though the thief couldn't be certain, his informant appeared to be mulling over something inside. Against his better judgement, Garrett decided to pay the old boxman an unexpected morning visit.

"Nah! Have ya got anything for magpies?" Basso asked the clearly annoyed farmer, "Preferably something with the little seeds in it? This ain't fer yer stupid frilly songbirds, after all!" 

The rogue smirked beneath his dark facial shroud, the expression reminiscent of a sparse crescent moon lost behind opaque black clouds. Exhaling a brief puff of mist into the frigid morning air, he shoved his hands down deep into his coat pockets, then sauntered on over to the boxman.

"Buying your groceries, I see..." he teased, prompting his shorter associate to whirl around in surprise. 

Basso looked as though he'd just been caught kissing the king's wife, his eyes wide and his lips puckered into a ridiculous 'O' shape. No doubt due to the overwhelming surprise of seeing his old friend in the market district. In broad daylight, no less.

"Garr--" Basso quickly corrected himself, before anyone could hear him. "--Uh, that is to say I mean, Jimmy! Jimmy Jahoosafits! Is that you? Ohh, I haven't seen you in years! How's the missus, Jim?"

Garrett glared into his mate, ending Basso's nonsense forthwith. The boxman seemed somewhat miffed by this, pouting momentarily like a small boy. He muttered something about some taffers being born without a sense of humor, and courteously concluded his purchase with the vendor. The portly fence had apparently decided on a medium burlap sack of large seeds, which Garrett couldn't quite identify. 

Turning back to his hoodless friend, Basso gave the thief a wink, and began walking back towards the Crippled Burrick. And Garrett, joined him. 

***

A rancid odor of piss and wood rot ravaged Garrett’s nostrils as he entered the cluttered tavern basement behind his oldest associate. Early morning light permeated the dusty windows, coating every crumbled newspaper and forgotten crate in a fine, periwinkle sheen. Basso groaned, stretching a bit after he’d tossed aside the rather heavy sack of mystery seeds. Then, the boxman waddled over to his makeshift kitchen, and reached for a chipped mug and a rusty can of stale coffee grounds. Garrett surveyed these actions as he took a seat in Basso’s desk chair. Basso glanced over his shoulder at the thief, spooning out some of the limp, ashy grounds into his mug. 

"Coffee?" Basso asked, making a cup for himself.

"No thanks," Garrett shook his head, reaching for his pipe. He sprawled out in Basso's armchair, one leg up over the armrest as he began to smoke. Basso shrugged, and closed the cupboard door above him. He turned around, staring at his mate’s fresh look between sips. 

"That's a young, bold look for someone like you," the boxman commented, gesturing towards the thief's jacket and bare head. "Course, when yer that thin I suppose you can pull anything off."

"Taff off," Garrett muttered, taking in a deep puff. The embers within his pipe glowed orange briefly before fading again.

Basso smirked, and set down his coffee. Untying the previously procured bag of seed, he scooped up a generous portion into his palm before walking over to Jenivere. The magpie was preening herself upon the window ledge. Her black eyes glistened like onyx marbles as she watched her handler approach. Her monochrome head craned and twitched, the hungry creature's curiosity evident.

"Here ya go, sweetheart," the old pauper crooned, leveling his hand with the bird's beak. Jenivere began to feed immediately. Basso chuckled softly to himself, marveling downward at his cherished pet. "These Growers sell better animal food than the stuff you get in the shops. They also sell pretty good people food, so I'm told--fresh produce and all. Me? I usually just eat pickles an' tavern grub. Or whatever leftovers Sophie brings me."

“You’re fortunate she still cooks for you, Basso,” the callous criminal commented. Basso shot him a perturbed look.

“Why do I get the feeling that yer tryin’ ta insult me?” he asked. Garrett released a cloud of thick grey smoke from his gaping lips, before licking the roof of his mouth to savor the rich flavor of tobacco.

“Probably because I was,” he chided. “You can’t even cook toast. You survive on a diet of bar nuts, pickles, and whatever slop the Crippled Burrick can’t sell. And judging from the coffee grounds stuck to your teeth, you can’t even do that right.”

Basso ground said teeth, resisting the urge to toss a nearby raunchy novel into Garrett’s face. But it was something akin to curiosity that stopped him. For lack of a better, far more colorful term, Garrett was acting like an even bigger taffer that morning than per usual. What’s more, he was behaving oddly, if a morning trip into the market wearing that rebellious get-up was anything to go by. And of course, it was. 

Basso knew something was up, and he had a pretty good suspicion that whatever it was, it had to do with that spunky little redhead. Scratching his chin, the boxman pondered the situation. If he wanted an answer, then he’d have to be cautious with his return fire. 

“Yer in a mood, I see,” he snorted. “What were you doin’ up so early anyway? And why were you in the market?”

Garrett’s face grew flustered beneath a haze of smoke and shadow. Basso’s concerned, and inquisitive response had indeed surprised him. He’d expected his robust friend to grow red with outrage—not this. Breathing through his teeth, the thief set his pipe down upon the cluttered desk, stretching his arms upwards with a groan.

“I swiped some sweet rolls for Gwenevere, as an incentive for her to start up her lessons again,” he explained, revealing the small pink box beneath his long coat. 

Basso’s eyes narrowed in confusion. He didn’t know which baffled him more: the news that devout little Gwenevere had ceased her training, or the notion of a hardened master thief stealing baked goods.

“Urm, what now?” Basso blinked. “Why’d she stop? The kiddo seemed so determined the last time I saw her." 

Garrett released a thick puff of smoke, followed by a heavy sigh. 

“We had a bit of an…altercation last night,” Garrett explained in a nonchalant, slightly aggravated voice. “She broke into the bottom room of the tower yesterday morning, then ran off into the forest. As punishment, I took her to watch Peirce the Liberator’s execution. She hasn’t so much as spoken to me since.”

The placid rogue watched with a brusque expression, as Basso’s chubby face sagged; drawn downward by the gravity of a most mortified frown. For a moment, the boxman’s cheeks were pallid; sugary and sullen. That is, until they blazed back to life with a deep, infernal shade of red. Basso’s mahogany brown eyes narrowed like those of a predatory bird, as he locked them with the apathetic criminal sitting before him.

Basso had been Garrett’s most trusted friend—perhaps his only friend—for longer than most men remain married. Consequentially, Garrett had witnessed the collapse of the boxman’s own dreamy little marriage; watched as two hands parted ways, still bearing the rings he had swiped just for them. And so too was the boxman well-acquainted with his own share of ugly little secrets. 

He would never forget the stony somberness prevalent in Garrett’s features, after the hooded misanthrope had first made the forsaken clocktower his new home. Naturally, it hadn’t taken the master thief long to uncover every square inch of that once holy sanctum. But he hadn’t been prepared at all for what lurked within the deepest recesses of that monolithic hourkeeper. And Basso highly doubted, that Gwenevere had.

He must have mulled over his thoughts for a solid minute, watching as the leaden smoke twisted and played around Garrett’s sharp nose and pensive eyes. But all Basso could manage to croak out, was a strained whisper of, “you did…what?!?”

Garrett blinked, the boxman’s perceived confusion irking him a little. How much more precise could he possibly be? Very slowly—and with another frustrated sigh—he proceeded to explain the situation again. 

“Gwenevere’s upset because of what happened yesterday, Basso,” he began in a slow, condescending manner, “she—"

“--I heard ya the first time!” Basso interrupted him, waving his arms upward and about in a furious fashion. "Why the hell would you do that?!"

Upon realizing the situation--that Basso, drunken failure Basso--was once again questioning his methods and intellect, Garrett began to grow bitter. But it wasn’t the questions or irate discontent of a fallen locksmith which rattled him the most. That would be the nagging doubts swirling around within the thief’s own mind like noxious fumes. 

Why had he done what he did? What could have possibly made him think that taking an innocent kid like Gwenevere into the darkest section of the City to watch a public hanging, was indeed a clever idea? If only for the sake of the instilled discipline and fear, it now seemed a moot point. After all, Gwenevere’s aspirations were whimsical daydreams at best, and unsettling delusions of grandeur at worst. The fact remained: doe-eyed virgins, did not become illustrious vigilantes. 

So why then, had Garrett taken her failings seriously for even one solitary moment? Why had he cared to dignify her dreams with even a passing semblance of reality or consequence? That, was perhaps what troubled him most of all. Against his finest attempts, he found himself growing conscientious regarding the girl’s future—and Garrett did not like getting attached to anything, least of all pretty faces. That was always a grievous, and often tragic, mistake. 

Briskly snuffing out his pipe, Garrett stood from Basso’s chair. 

"I don't know!” he defended, splaying his arms outward for a moment. “I thought it would make her take her training more seriously, if she saw what could happen if she doesn't." 

For a moment, Basso’s face remained locked in perpetual animosity. His pronounced nostrils flared with each heated breath, his brown eyes wide and bloodshot. Finally, and in an almost disturbing shift of demeanor, the boxman emitted a low chuckle. 

"Oh, I get it,” he smirked. “Yer havin' yerself a little crisis of conscience, now ain’tcha?"

This unexpected accusation seemed to rile the thief even further. Stomping forward, Garrett shoved his index finger mere inches from his fence’s bulbous nose.   
“Now you listen here, Basso, cus’ I’m only gonna say this once: I’m not going soft.”

"Well, if you ain't guilty, and you ain't goin' soft, that only leaves..." as the realization struck him like a tidal wave, a goofy grin expanded itself synonymously across Basso’s scruffy face. "You LIKE her..."

Garrett’s eyes widened, his mouth gaping into an irate, bottomless well of absolute stupefaction. 

"Oh you’ve GOT to be kidding me!” he hissed, glaring daggers into Basso’s satisfied expression. The boxman burst out laughing.

“Annnnd, that dramatic bit of denial seals it as fact, my friend,” the robust pauper nodded, quite pleased with himself. Revenge had been enacted, and it was sweet indeed. 

“How about sealing that senseless, flapping mouth of yours before I close it for you?” Garrett threatened, his stare growing dark. “You can’t seriously think I’m interested in that high-strung redhead.”

Basso crossed his arms in defiance.

"Humph. And why not? She’s sweet, and loving—”

“—half my age, at most,” Garrett interrupted dryly. 

“Yep, yep. That’s probably true,” Basso nodded. “But have ya LOOKED at her lately? Why, if I had a dame like that livin’ under my roof—”  
“—Irrelevant,” the thief snapped. 

"No, no, hear me out,” Basso attempted to placate the sour criminal. “I know that you don't do the whole 'wine em, dine em' thing. But! I know as well as you do that a man’s got needs, and there's a lot to be learned from a little pillow talk, if you catch my drift…" he winked, elbowing his friend in the ribs. Garrett appeared genuinely sick.

"I don’t taff information out of women. That’s your thing,” he poisoned. Basso mockingly clutched at his chest and winced.

“Ooh, that smarts,” he chuckled. “But seriously—try it some time. Ya never know what they’ll tell ya. Maybe, Gwennie knows the secret code to her father’s safe?” he tempted in a playful singsong voice. Garrett just scowled.

“Well, Gwenevere’s heavily implied that Simmons isn’t even her real father,” he replied with a snort. Basso’s face brightened with surprise.

“Really?! Way ta go, Lady Simmons!” he belted out another raucous belly laugh. Garrett didn’t so much as giggle.

“I’m dead serious, Basso,” he admonished. “She said some…really weird things to me yesterday. And she’s also been pretty vocal in regards to not being dubbed a noble right from the start. Come to think of it, do you see any family resemblance between Gwenevere and Lord Simmons? Or Lady Simmons, for that matter?”

Whatever crude joy had dazzled Basso’s face, drained away forthwith. 

“Garrett, are you seriously suggesting that Gwennie ain’t their kid?” he asked his mate in a low murmur.

Garrett turned away. He’d neglected to reveal the truly disturbing evidence which had first led him to this theory. Questions which still nagged and pricked at the darkest corners of his mind. How did Gwenevere know Constantine? Why would she say she was half nymph? Constantine, or the Trickster as he was best known, held a direct link to those sultry and fearsome woodland women. The pieces of Gwenevere’s story—however ludicrous—all fit together. 

But the thief refused to acknowledge the glaring correlation. The girl was playful by nature. Perhaps this was all just some elaborate jape. It had to be. Because if even a fraction of her story were true, then Garrett had far greater things to worry about than powerful nobles and bounty hunters. If Gwenevere was indeed half nymph, then he had unwittingly welcomed a literal monster into his abode. 

Clearing his thoughts and steadying his nerves, Garrett faced his friend once more.

“Well, it would make sense at least. Now we have a definite reason for why she ran away,” Garrett shrugged. The boxman grumbled miserably under his breath.

“Well, shit. That certainly explains the less-than-loving bounty hunters he sent after her,” Basso murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Another noble's conspiracy. Why the taff ain't I surprised..." 

“Tch, you shouldn’t be,” Garrett groused. 

Without warning, Basso grabbed his mate by the collar of his leather jacket, and pulled. Garrett lurched forward, shock written across his gaunt features. Too surprised by mild-mannered Basso’s sudden show of force, he merely blinked, and met the intense gaze of the adamant hooligan. 

“Garrett, ya gotta promise me—now, more than ever—that you’ll keep that poor girl safe!” Basso’s grip tightened upon Garrett’s collar. “If Lord Simmons truly has kidnapped her from someplace, who knows what she’s been goin’ through up in that manor?” 

Garrett jerked back, straightening his collar with a rough tug. He glowered down scornfully at his fence.

“Let me guess: you want me to find her real parents and bring her home now? How about I adopt the village stray, and become the next Robber Hood while I’m at it?” he jeered. Basso frowned.

“I don’t expect you to do anything beyond what I paid ya ta do,” he admitted firmly. “I know you ain’t the charitable type. Just…just promise you’ll keep that kiddo safe until she can fend for herself, okay?”

Garrett’s face darkened, as his mind once again painted pictures of tall, ligneous women with wooden talons and fearsome grins. Fingers dripping with manfool blood; each drop perfectly complimenting a vibrant set of crimson eyes. 

If Gwenevere was indeed one of them—even partially—then she was more than capable of fending for herself already. If she was really half-nymph, then it was the thief who needed to exercise extreme caution around his seemingly ditzy, and unassuming little houseguest. 

***

Garrett returned to the clocktower later that morning without incident. His plan to hide the obvious in plain sight, had apparently worked better than expected. In retrospect, he supposed the hood was his most notable article of clothing. Builder how he’d missed wearing it that day!

As he neared the dormitories, the thief could hear a distinct scuffling from within. Whatever his pouty little apprentice was up to, she wasn’t trying to be discreet. Bracing himself, sweet rolls in hand, Garrett knocked on one of the doors. The scuffling ceased, and Gwenevere’s muffled voice permeated the resulting quiet.

“Go away, Garrett. I’m still mad at you.”

The thief smirked, glancing down at the glazed breakfast treats in his hand. 

“Are you sure? I brought you sweet rolls,” he tried to sound as cheerful and generous as possible, which was anything but easy. 

“Leave them by the door. I don’t wanna see you,” the girl creature answered back. 

Garrett’s brows furrowed. He’d ventured into the perilous streets of the City to steal these for her. Sweet rolls of all things! Something the master thief had absolutely zero interest in. 

Perhaps it was due to his denial of sweets from a young age under stodgy Keeper rule, but Garrett found the taste of refined sugar downright nauseating. The unnatural richness tickled his teeth, and gave him a stomachache. Why the nobles could easily grow fat off things like chocolate and pastries, he hadn’t a clue. A ripe, red apple was more than enough for the worldly rogue. 

“I’m not gonna leave them out for the rats, Gwenevere,” Garrett snapped. “You either come out and take ‘em from me, or I’ll toss them out the taffing window.”

“NO!” the young woman shrieked. Abruptly, the door swung open, nearly smacking Garrett in the face. Gwenevere stood before him, wide-eyed and panting. “No, you mustn’t do that! It would be such a waste!”

Garrett smirked a little, and held out the box of goodies for her to see. Gwenevere pried up the lid, and peered inside. The sweet rolls were beautiful. Each of the four pastries were iced with a different pastel hue, dusted with powdered sugar, and adorned with a candied cherry on top. The runaway shut the lid, and smiled up at her mentor.

“Thank you,” she nodded, reaching for the box. 

Worried that she would simply squirrel it away in her room without so much as accepting his apology, the thief’s stiff fingers clamped tighter around the package. When she found that she could not take it away, Gwenevere’s small smile crumbled. 

“Hey! What gives?” she wailed. Garrett smirked down at her.

“I want you to eat them up in the belvedere with me,” he clarified. “I have something I need to talk with you about.” 

An incredulous look donned Gwenevere’s face.

“What is it? Is it about what you did yesterday?” there was something akin to venom within her words. 

“Yeah. Is that gonna be a problem?” Garrett was growing defensive.

Gwenevere’s eyes widened, her hands falling from the box to the sides of her body. She shuffled her foot, and pursed her bottom lip in discomfort.

“Please tell me…that you’re at least a little sorry?” she peeped.

“Taff, Gwenevere. Why do you THINK I brought you these? ‘Cus I sure as hell ain’t gonna eat them,” Garrett retorted sardonically. 

Gwenevere smiled up at him, her eyes glistening with the return of sheer hope.

“I suppose I could eat up there with you. If only to hear you out,” she agreed. 

So, sweet rolls in hand, master and apprentice ascended higher into the clocktower together.


End file.
